Silverleaf
by DevilKing091
Summary: When an assassination attempt on Dethklok pushes Charles to hire a protection detail, he brings the wrath of the band upon himself. Losing a vacation fund is bad, but it's worse to have musician's block and an unusually distant drummer. Terrible summary.
1. Of God, Death, and Booze

**This is my first time writing for Metalocalypse. So, I hope you enjoy.**

**Chapter 1: Of God and Death**

Every bullet tells a story.

There are all kinds of bullets. Hollow point, armor-piercing, full-metal jacketed, incendiary. All different calibers. And of course, there are all kinds of guns. Shotguns, rifles, pistols, machine guns. Each barrel scores unique rifling-patterns onto the bullets, leaving behind evidence of their origin.

Military-grade sniper rifles are always state-of-the-art. America's covert operations sometimes require the use of weapons small enough to fit in a bag, a purse, a briefcase. For the most important high-profile criminals, Death can come from any angle. A drug-dealer could be sitting in an expensive French café, drinking coffee, and suddenly his brains could exit the back of his head. Theoretically. These weapons were nearly silent and easy to disassemble after the task was complete. Sometimes it could be eight minutes before an absent-minded waitress finally noticed and alerted the world to the death of such a man with a piercing scream and a shattered coffee-cup.

Theoretically.

But such a fate is surely only for America's foes. These guns, prized for their small size and innocuous concealment, are protected, held under lock and key in top-secret government facilities. No one except Navy SEALS and Marine snipers could enter the lockup. But with enough money, and the right influence, such a weapon can be purchased for a few thousand dollars. From an abandoned warehouse in Tulsa. From an old German ex-con with a bad lisp.

Some guns speak to certain people. This one spoke to the right person.

It was not the size that mattered. Not the style. Folding-stock rifles were much cheaper. No, it was the _investment. _The _nickname. _This gun, gleaming in the dark like a sacred jewel. So beautiful. So sleek and powerful. Surely such a weapon was Godlike. Deciding who lived and who died. What a romantic thought.

Claude Decreux held a special love for the treasure in the slim black briefcase. Often he found his eyes drawn to the beauty of the smooth leather and the glowing metal. He dreamed of the wonderful gun in bed every night, imagined holding it in his arms, cradling it like a baby, using it to achieve his own ends. _The bringer of death_, he thought. _If it is Godlike, does that make me God? _He smiled, but his lips trembled. What blasphemy. _I am not God. But I am an angel of Death._

The nickname was the final touch. Claude referred to it as his Darling. The true nickname was somewhat more sinister despite its simple origin. It was named after the group who had invested in its development. The US Army was grateful for the weapon, and grateful for the investment that made the DR1440 series possible. Their nickname for it, and for its investors, was perfect.

To Claude, the irony was intense. If it even existed. Claude wasn't entirely sure what irony was.

-(!)-

It was 5:30 in the evening when the young man entered the mall. He was small, quiet, and well-dressed. He carried a shoulder-bag. The bag attracted no attention from the security guards. The man smiled kindly to a crying little girl, held a door for a pregnant woman, and wandered his way into a café seemingly at random. He ordered a plain cup of Americano and sat at a table in a corner of the food court, taking in the view beyond the rain-splattered windows. He appeared to be searching for something. But no one noticed him. He was too ordinary for notice. He sipped his coffee and waited.

5:45 rolled around, and Claude was still waiting in the food court. He was fifteen minutes early. This was his curse, he supposed. He was always early, and his clients were always late. What a world. He sighed. His heart was heavy. His Darling would not longer be his as of 6:00 PM. A man, a rich one, was coming to take it away. He wished with all his heart that he could keep the DR1440. But two million dollars was worth losing it. Two million dollars could buy him all the firepower in the world. Perhaps even a new Darling.

"Decreux?" Claude jumped, nearly upsetting his coffee cup. A man stood beside the table, wearing a black coat over a cream-colored suit. "Gun." He twitched his slender, gloved fingers. "Hurry up. There isn't much time."

Claude didn't look up into that shadowy face. If he didn't, he could pretend to have no part in what this man was going to do. No one to identify meant no one to testify against if everything went to hell. He handed over the briefcase without a word, eyes trained on the chipped rim of his cup. A similar briefcase was returned to him. Claude didn't bother examining it. He knew all of it was in there. All the cash he could ever need.

"Get out of here," the man said. "Scatter."

Claude scattered. He stood and all but fled from the food court. He made his way to the main doors as quickly as possible, avoiding the eyes of everyone, security and customers alike. At least he drew no stares. _I'm not involved, I'm not involved_, he thought frantically. The mantra echoed in his head, a talisman of safety. _I'm not involved. I'm not involved!_

A bang, a scream. Claude jumped. More screams. The mall erupted into pandemonium. Gates slammed shut over the wide glass doors. He stared, wild-eyed in terror. _Caught! _his mind wailed. _Oh God oh JESUS I'm caught! They're gonna know I provided the gun! I provided the gun that killed . . . Killed who?_

Claude forgot entirely about the DR1440's loss. His fear had been replaced by simple, boundless curiosity. _Which one did that bullet kill?_

When cops came running for him, Claude did not try to escape. He thought again about the nickname of the gun as a policeman ordered him to drop the bag. He obeyed all their commands with dreamy detachment. didn't care when they ordered him away from the door and into a nearby flower shop for later questioning. He no longer found the need to use the DR1440's stupid pet name. _Darling. _How foolish. It deserved something more morbid. Because for the first time in its entire existence, it had been used to take a life.

A DethRifle to kill a member of Dethklok. How perfectly ironic.

-(!)-

Splattered reddish-pink muck, spreading sluggishly all over the floor.

Toki Wartooth didn't know if it was blood and brains or Swkisgaar's strawberry milkshake.

He stood stunned in the middle of the roaring mall. To his left, his friends Nathan Explosion and Pickles the Drummer lay on their stomachs, surrounded by their servants, shouting loud enough to echo in the cavernous hall. Toki spied his cowering mother behind another group of Gears. A sneer of disgust rippled across his smooth features. For one second, his bright blue eyes glowed with hatred. Then it was gone.

"My Lord, get down," a Gear said sharply. Toki glanced at the deep-voiced, hooded servant. "There may be more shooters."

"Is everyones okays?" he asked. His voice sounded muffled, distant.

"Yes, My Lord. Everyone is fine."

Toki relaxed. He knelt on the floor obediently, covered in all different directions by silent Gears. Between a forest of legs he saw his vain, blonde band-mate stalking in a circle and flipping his hair. He appeared to be sulking. There was strawberry milkshake dripping out of his hand. A Gear dabbed at it with a cloth, but Skwisgaar Swigelf pushed him away. He was swearing in vivid Swedish. At least he didn't seem injured.

Toki knew that Death followed him wherever he went. Thankfully Death had not taken any of his friends this time.

He would have been okay with Death taking his mother though. That would have been fine.

"Is everyone all right?" a voice was bellowing. Toki frowned, trying to concentrate. It sounded like their manager, Charles Foster Ofdensen. But Charles hadn't come to the mall with Dethklok and their mothers. How did he arrive so quickly?

"We're fine!" Nathan called back. He sounded a little less gruff than normal. Perhaps he was as shaken as Toki. He tried to rise, but a Gear gently pushed him back to the floor. He obeyed without complaint.

"What the hell happened?" the voice continued. Toki glanced around. Sure enough, the manager was striding toward the group. His face was ghostly white except for hectic spots of color high on his cheekbones. The worry line between his eyes was more pronounced than ever. His mouth was a razor thin line. "What the hell were you people doing?" he shouted with uncharacteristic rage.

"We were walking with the band, sir," said one of the Gears politely. The young man stood at attention in front of the manager. "The gun . . . appeared out of nowhere. We don't even know where the shot came from."

Charles Ofdensen's furious glare could have lit the young Gear on fire. "You don't _know_?"

"We do not, sir . . . ."

Toki quit listening. A Gear helped him to his feet and brushed him off. Toki didn't notice. He watched as Nathan and Pickles rose to their feet, looking pale and shocked. They were immediately surrounded by Gears and hustled toward the exits. Another of Toki's friends, William Murderface, followed close behind. He swore at the Gears surrounding him, but the servants ignored him patiently. Murderface was followed by the band's mothers and at least thirty servants. They were swarming everywhere throughout the mall, roughly handling scared shoppers desperate for a view of their favorite band. Toki wondered where they came from. They hadn't accompanied the band on this trip.

A hand touched his elbow. He looked into the hooded face of a Gear. "My Lord, Mr. Ofdensen has asked that Dethklok return to Mordhaus. For security reasons."

"Oh," said Toki, running a hand over his hair, "okies."

Toki followed the crowd of Dethklok servants through the mall, trying to avoid his stern-faced mother. He fell in step with Skwisgaar. The lead guitarist was still swearing under his breath. Toki noticed that he had missed a spot of strawberry smoothie on his elbow. Surrounded on all sides by silent Gears, Toki found himself shunted along through a tunnel of bodies. The line passed Ofdensen, who inspected each member of Dethklok before allowing them out the door. He looked Toki and Skwisgaar up and down and nodded swiftly. "You're all right," he said, satisfied. "You're all right."

"Ja," grumbled Skwisgaar. "What does it matters to you?"

Ofdensen ignored this. "The limo is waiting outside for all of you." He pulled them along through the large glass doors and out into the main courtyard, toward the parking lot. The six men and four mothers (plus one grandmother) boarded the limo in silence. The two groups sat close together, vacant stares fixed on an uncomfortable Ofdensen. The silence continued for ten minutes. The limo pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road bound for Mordhaus.

It was Pickles who spoke up first, of course. He blinked once, twice, and then said, "So _dat_ was fun."

The others exploded into conversation simultaneously. Ofdensen winced. Murderface and Skwisgaar were shouting obscenities at the top of their voices. Nathan's mother was shrieking, her voice a toneless siren wailing above every other in the crowded limo. The others were bellowing questions.

"Holy FUCK! What happened?"

"There's strawberry shit on my shirt!"

"Oh my God, William! What's going on?"

"Mam! Stop screamin'!"

"EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Nathan roared.

Instantly, there was silence.

Ofdensen stared at Nathan. The singer glared back with deadly calm from behind a sheaf of ebony hair. "Thank you, Nathan."

"Speak," the man ordered. Then he folded his hands in his lap and stretched out his long legs. His eyes dared Ofdensen to disobey.

Charles coughed delicately. "There isn't much to say. We don't know anything. But I felt it would be best to bring you back to the safety of Mordhaus."

"What about us?" demanded Mrs. Explosion. She gestured to the other mothers. They watched the manager in stony silence. Toki's mother Anja had a particularly fierce evil-eye. She unnerved him. Of course, that could simply be his hidden hatred for her lurking at the edge of his conscious. Her expressionless face inspired only loathing in him. How to deal with the problem of five annoying maternal figures? His mind whirled furiously.

Finally, he decided a lie was best. He invented a plan on the fly. "You five are being sent home with a guard," he said. "We do not believe you were the assassin's target, so you should go home." _And stay out of my hair. PLEASE._

"Their targets was my milkshakes," said Skwisgaar morosely. Toki clapped him on the back. His expression was sympathetic. Skwisgaar offered him an appreciative half-smile. Sure, appreciation wasn't brutal, but in times like these, who gave a fuck?

"Anything else?" demanded Mrs. Murderface. Her voice was high and shrill with fear.

"Well, the gun was definitely a DR1440." Charles's mouth twitched. "The bullets are distinctive. Even mashed to pieces, we could figure out where it came from. And besides, a DethRifle is the perfect size to hide in a briefcase or a purse."

"A DethRifle?" inquired Mrs. Explosion. Her eyes widened in comprehension and horror. She rounded on her son. "You financed a _gun_?"

Nathan shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, we were drunk, Mom," he muttered. "Like, really drunk. And the military was cool about it. Gave us, uh, a bunch of flare guns and explosives. Made a badass show."

"Charles let ya _do _this?" shrieked Pickles's mother, Molly.

"_Mam_," whined Pickles, "it was a publicity stunt." Molly slapped him. "Ow! _Mam_!" He rubbed his stinging cheek.

Ofdensen massaged the bridge of his nose. A headache throbbed in his temples. He resisted the urge to shout. "The five of you are going home," he said through clenched teeth. "Immediately."

"Thank God," muttered Murderface. His grandmother slapped him. "OW! _Gramma_!"

The limo erupted into shouts again. Ofdensen buried his head in his hands. This was going to be a long, long night.

-(!)-

Dethklok and their mothers argued the entirety of the two-hour trip back to Mordhaus. Ofdensen tried his best to tune them out, but it was no good. Five Dethklok members was bad enough; five Dethklok members plus their overbearing, irritating mothers was hell on earth. Charles was the first person out of the limo. He helped The mothers out, then all but raced towards the main doors. He wanted a glass of brandy more than anything in the world. He excused himself from dinner and locked himself in his private office.

The silence in his office was a welcome blessing. He crossed the room in three eager strides, reached into a drawer, and pulled out an enormous bottle of Aspirin along with a bottle of water. _Thank God_, he thought. He settled himself at the desk. _Now, to think._

What the hell had happened today? Death threats came all the time, but it had been awhile since anyone attempted to carry out their threat. The last disgruntled fan who had attempted to assassinate Dethklok had been killed by a Klokateer within five minutes. Charles wondered if the local police had found anything. They would have to report to him first. If they didn't, Charles vowed to personally tear out their spleens. It was a hobby of his, imagining violent fates inflicted upon local law enforcement. Over the last few years they had certainly proved to be useless. Charles loathed them even more than Toki's "mother."

Another thing on his hate list was the Klokateers. They had had failed him today. They had risked the lives of his meal ticket. They would be punished for it, starting with the head of security and working down to the personal Dethklok bodyguards. Charles Ofdensen would see to it.

_Now, perhaps . . . Perhaps I should find someone to help. I can't do this on my own._

Charles picked up the phone. He pressed 001, the personal pager number for the security head. It rang only once. "Get in here," he ordered, not waiting for a greeting. No time for kindness.

"Yes, My Lord," responded a curt voice. The call ended.

Charles laid his head on his desk. Pinpoints of reddish light glowed like embers in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. Finally, some blessed silence. Slowly, his breathing calmed. He had exactly five minutes of peace before a swift knock on the door drew him out of his reverie. At his command, a short Klokateer entered the room. She bowed her head slightly. "You called, sir?"

"What would you say is the greatest flaw in our security?" No pretense. No politeness. Charles had no time for charisma and politic inquiries. This problem needed a solution immediately. His eyes bored holes in the rough cloth of the security head's hood. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Viktoriya Belyakov was not used to being treated this way. Typically she did not need to think, only to react. She had lived half her life in this way, living by her wits on frozen Russian streets. When she had been picked up by Dethklok after a concert, she did not expect much more than life and eventual death. The gear branded onto her shoulder was her highest expected honor. The emblem of the Head of Security was an unimaginable bonus. The Klokateers had been so small then. Easy to teach. She could train them single-handed. But now, their ranks had grown exponentially. She lost sight of them. Often they vanished into the depths of Mordhaus without a soldier's basic training. That worried Viktoriya. Had she grown old and incompetent already?

"There are too many," she began, fumbling for the right words. Speaking to Ofdensen always filled her with dread. She clenched her sweating hands, assuming a mask of indifference. "They do not like to learn."

"They need to be trained?"

"We do not like to be trained. We die, or fall through the cracks. So many employees in so many places, so many countries . . . Those assigned to protect my Lords this morning will be punished, Sir, I promise you."

"That is of no concern." Charles tapped a pen on his desk blotter. There was a moment of silence as he pondered. Viktoriya stood at attention, waiting and sweating, biting her lips. Finally, he looked up at her, thoughtful. "If I were to bring you help . . . ."

Viktoriya felt her cheeks heat up. "I need no help, Sir."

"Obviously, you do," responded Charles scathingly, temper finally overwhelming self-control. "Otherwise your people would not have endangered the lives of the band, eh? Miss Belyakov, I don't tolerate bullshit. You were slow to react today, and slower to contain the situation. Your people should have seen that shooter a full ten minutes before he started aiming down his sights. You're damn lucky Skwisgaar's milkshake was the only casualty. Because if one of the band had been injured or killed, I would have strewn your guts across the floor."

"Mister Ofdensen, Sir, I was not at the mall . . . ."

"Why not? Was anyone you _trusted _helping with the security?"

"I trust no one," growled Viktoriya.

"Miss Belyakov, I don't care who you trust." When she tried to protest, Charles raised his hands. "I'm hiring someone. That's the end of it. If you and your people cannot train the incoming Gears, then you are of little use to me. Your career here is only safe due to your excellent service over the years, though I'm beginning to reconsider how much you've actually done for us. We're getting someone to tend to this . . . Disaster. Immediately."

Viktoriya glared at him through her hood. Her eyes blazed hate. Humiliation made her cheeks glow redder than Pickles's hair. She bowed deeply. "Very well, Sir."

"Dismissed." Ofdensen didn't even look at her. Viktoriya made sure to knock over a cheap Ikea lamp on her way out the door.

Before the shattered glass had even settled, Charles Ofdensen picked up the phone.

-(!)-

Pickles was stoned.

This was not unusual of course. He had taken a couple bowls of some incredibly good stuff, and now little green-and-red devils crawled along the ceiling. He grinned, amused. They were waving at him. One of them was holding a woman's severed head. Like, fuckin brutal, dude.

Toki was sitting to his left, clutching Deddy Bear (which for some reason Pickles visualized as a bowtie-wearing dragon) to his chest. Pickles had hidden his stash (and booby-trapped the hiding spot with a large Victory mousetrap) in his room before coming out to the game room. It left more for him and less for any other asshole that tried to steal it.

"Pickle?"

Pickles turned his head. "Dood," he said, giggling, "yer face . . . ."

Toki's Fu Manchu was purple, and he had cat-whiskers. He smiled uncertainly at Pickles, who could only cackle like a fool. Pickles rocked back and forth on the couch, holding his sides. "Pickle?" Toki asked again. "What ams goings to happen to us?"

"Whaddya mean dood? We're fahn . . . ."

"They trieds to shoots us!" exclaimed Toki, holding Deddy Bear close. In Pickles's vision, the dragon's drooping neck jerked upright, and its mouth opened, releasing a column of bright red smoke. "Will they comes here and kills us?"

"Nah, th' Klokateers'll keep us safe."

"But . . . Whats if the Gear don't takes care of us?"

Pickles was too interested in the creatures on the ceiling to pay attention. "Wat? Why're ya asking me so many damn questions? I dunno all right? Now shaddup."

Toki said nothing. He hunched down in his seat. "I ams glad our mom went homes."

Pickles chuckled hollowly. "Me too dood." Dear God, talking to this kid was absolutely _killing _his high. The devils lost all interest in him and crawled off out a widow. Pickles waved to them. He'd see them again after some more of that _delicious _stuff . . . .

"Pickle?"

"What?" demanded the drummer. A hectic light shone in his bloodshot eyes. "Fack! What d'ya wahnt?"

Toki lifted his chin defiantly. "You ams asshole," he said bluntly.

"Man, fuck off."

"Why ams you so pissed? Dids I do somethings wrong?"

"_No,_" responded Pickles in clumsy Norwegian. "_You didn't. Now go away._"

Toki raised an eyebrow. "_I didn't know you spoke my language. And by the way, your accent is terrible._"

"Man, shaddup," groaned Pickles. Attempting to communicate in Norwegian was giving him one _bitch _of a headache. "I'm naht in the mood. The devils wanna play dood."

"Why ams you so fucked ups right nows?"

"Because-a my mudder," Pickles muttered. "She's all mahd 'cause I don't ever tak tah her."

Interesting. One of those little devil imps had settled on the coffee table. Pickles was slightly discomfited when he noticed that the severed head it carried was that of Molly, his mother. Her bulging eyes stared sightlessly out at him. A tear of blood slid down her cheek. Fucking not brutal dude. Not brutal at all. For the first time in years, Pickles wanted to be sober. Satisfied, Toki went back to his video game.

It hadn't been the talking. Molly and Calvert were used to their son not communicating with them. He'd gone sixteen years without even sending a Christmas card or making a phone call to his estranged parents. It was the smooth, seamless way that Molly had once again tried to establish domination over her son nearly the instant she arrived at Mordhaus. The subtle clues, the greedy way her eyes lit up whenever she saw evidence of his wealth, the disapproving stares when he picked up a bottle. Pickles understood that his mother was unhappy with who he was, but he found himself not giving a shit. The stares and the expressions he could handle. The arguments however he found intolerable.

First, she had suggested he buy Seth an expensive Christmas present to welcome him into the business. Duty-bound, Pickles had obeyed his mother, and shipped off the Rolex to Australia. But Molly's demands had become stranger. The previous night over a glass of post-dinner wine, Molly had mentioned repayment to the family for their shelter and legal aid in the first sixteen years of his life. Angered (and admittedly a little drunk), Pickles had retorted that he had never needed her help.

Molly smiled at him with that icy smile of hers, the one that flooded his heart with blazing fury. God curse him for being Irish. He controlled his temper for all of five minutes. Then Molly asked him, casually, if there was any woman in his life. He had denied any serious involvement with a woman. This made his mother sniff. Suddenly he could not tolerate her snide shit anymore. He said something that he knew would horrify her. "I fuck 'em an' run, Mam," he said, gloating at the look of shock and revulsion that crossed her face. "Fuckin' and runnin' is good nuff fer me."

"Watch yer language!" his mother had snapped. Her mouth tightened. "Maybe if ya had a decent woman, yer life wouldn't be such a gutter."

"I'm fahn, Mam, I'm rich."

"With no one tah take care of ya," responded Molly coolly. "What do ya have here 'sides a clan of drunks?"

"Mam, don't knock my friends," he growled.

"Friends? Friends that leave ya too drunk tah get off the floor?"

"Without 'em, Mam, I wouldn't be rich."

"Maybe if ya were wit a respectable girl . . . ."

"What does _dat _have anything tah do with it?"

"Because a woman might teach yah ta control yerself!" Pickles had ended this conversation by hurling his half-full beer bottle across the room and storming off to find Murderface. His last sight of his mother before the mall trip was of her fussily cleaning up the broken shards of his bottle, glass and foam glistening at her feet.

Pickles didn't hate his mother. He hated the idea of her controlling his life through all these years. Hadn't he escaped at sixteen to avoid her bullshit? Hadn't he left home to avoid his father's rampant alcoholism and continual verbal abuse? With Snakes N' Barrels he had made a name for himself, found his calling, and now with Dethklok he had something even better. He was rich, women loved him, and he got all sorts of no-strings-attached sex. These people were more his family than Molly or Calvert (whose name Pickles had managed to forget), and certainly even Ofdensen was more of a family member than Seth. Pickles loved them a little, as any child may love his family, but the affection was deeply buried beneath decades of loathing. Nathan, Charles, Skwisgaar, Toki, and even Murderface meant more to him than his mother and father.

Perhaps his mother simply wanted him to marry and have children like Seth planned to do. Perhaps her heart _was _in the right place, her dreams for her youngest son as innocent as any mother's'. A wife and children were just not in the cards for the Dethklok drummer. Booze and crazy-ass parties seemed more likely. The thought of a woman he had to sleep with exclusively and grow old with . . . Dear God. Fuck that bullshit. What if she turned out to be just like his mom? What if _he_ turned out like Calvert?

Pickles shuddered and opened a fresh bottle of beer. Less thinking, more drinking.

"Hey guys? Where the hell is Ofdensen?" Murderface entered the game-room. His bright green eyes were narrowed with frustration. "I Want my damn mace."

"You ordered a mace?" inquired Pickles.

"It's a weapon, I like weapons, what's it to ya, asshole?"

"Nothin'," retorted the drummer. "Fuck you."

"Ofdensen ams in his offices," Toki informed Murderface. "I thinks he ams in a bad moods."

"Ofdensen in a bad mood?" Murderface snorted. "Robots don't have moods Toki." He drifted back out of the room, leaving Pickles to his booze and Toki to his game.

-(!)-

William Murderface was not a trusting man by nature, But Toki seemed to be the most honest out of all his bandmates. Sometimes William wondered if Toki understood the nature of deception. But then he dismissed the idea. The rhythm guitarist could probably lie just as much as anybody else. Either way, Ofdensen was probably in his office. That's where he usually holed up after dinner.

Murderface wandered the hall idly for a few minutes, glaring at Klokateers and making them feel uncomfortable. It amused him. Behind their hoods he could almost picture their faces, an expression of fear and nervousness brought on by the ferocity of his stare. William had a rather vivid imagination. He hoped no one else knew that. Imaginations were pretty non-brutal. But nobody knew, because nobody could see into his mind. Well, maybe Skwisgaar. That blonde's eyes could stare into anyone's soul. It would be no surprise to Murderface if Skwisgaar could read his mind.

When the oak doors of the CFO's office came into view, Murderface squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his fullest height. He marched up to the door and, finding it locked, and knocked insistently.

"Yes?"

"Lemme in, Ofdensen."

"I'm sorry Murderface, I'm rather busy." The man's voice sounded strained. "What do you need?"

"I want my mace!" he yelled through the door. "When the hell is it gonna be delivered?"

"Check back with me in later."

Murderface pouted. "Come on Charlie . . . ."

"Murderface, I'm sorry! I'm busy right now. Please, check back with me later. Two days. Give me two days and I'll have your mace. And all the rest of your weapons. And Kennedy's shoes. Okay?" His voice had risen to a frantic pitch with this last, and Murderface was instantly wary. A tone like that screamed desperation.

"What the hell are you doing Charlie? What's more important than my weaponry? Let me in!"

"Murderface, _later!"_

"Aw, fuck you," Murderface mumbled. He stalked off down the hall with his hands shoved in his pockets, wondering what the hell Charles was doing behind closed doors. Maybe coke. Hell, meth even. Those were the only two things Murderface could even imagine as being more important. Well, women were pretty important too, but Murderface was certain Charles was some kind of gay-robot virgin. It would suit him.

Unsatisfied, the Dethklok bassist wandered down the hall to find some more booze.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews are love. ^_^<strong>


	2. Silverleaf

**Chapter 2: Away in America**

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Shit!"

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

"I gottit! I gottit!"

"Regina shut up! Just get the damn phone!"

"Oh hush Tony, you're so mean . . . ."

"REGINA! GET THE PHONE!"

"Okay, Jesus . . . ." The short woman raced across the room, slipping in her sock-clad feet. She halted her progress by clipping the wall with one arm. She plucked the phone from its cradle. "Hello? Silverleaf Security, can I help you?"

"This is Charles Ofdensen."

"Uh, okay . . . ."

"Regina, who the hell is it? Is it for me? Did I get the part?"

"Tony! Shut up!" Regina Maine blushed crimson. "I'm so sorry, Mister Ofdensen, there's been a bit of chaos here today. People moving in and such. How can I help you?"

"Am I speaking to . . . A. Ryland?"

"No; you're talking to one of the Silverleaf founders though. I handle stuff too, as a full partner in the business. What can I do you for?"

"I am interested in hiring your company for a large-scale security job. I hear you also do investigations."

"What type of investigations?"

"You . . . Work closely with the police to identify criminals, to protect your charges?"

"Yeah, we can do that. We've done it in the past anyhow. Who's the crook?""A local gun-dealer by the name of Claude Decreux."

"How many people do you want?"

"All of you."

"All 100 of us? Seriously, you could pay for that?" Regina's mouth hung open. She thanked God the man on the other side of the phone couldn't see her face. Especially if he looked as good as he sounded. She hated looking like a dolt in front of fine-looking men. She fell damn easily for a man in a suit."My clients are very rich. _Very _rich."

"Who are they, Dethklok?" Regina giggled at the thought,

There was a pause. Mister Ofdensen did not laugh. Regina shifted uncomfortably, mirth fully dissolved. Finally, Ofdensen said, "Please, may I speak to A. Ryland?"

"Okeydokey I guess. Hold please." She pressed the button and hung the phone on its cradle. She cupped her hands to her mouth. "ALANA! PHONE!"

There was a responding shout from the depths of the house. A few moments later, a short woman entered the room. She was wearing a pair of old basketball shorts and a tank top. Her face was streaked with sweat., her breathing harsh, her long black hair in disarray. "What?" she demanded. "I'm busy!"

"Some guy called us, he wants all of us to guard some clients of his and track down some dealer. Investigation money. Lots of it."

Alana sighed. The lure of long-term wages for all 100 employees didn't catch her attention as easily as it had Regina's. Alana was in this for more than cash. "Damn, really? I was hoping for a day off." She took the phone from the wall. Regina turned to leave. Alana held up one hand encased in a tape-wrapped glove. "Wait! Gina, what's his name?"

"Ofdensen."

Alana's eyes widened. "_Ofdensen? _As in, Charles Ofdensen?"

"Yeah, you know him?"

Alana resisted the urge to smack her own forehead. "Gina. Charles Ofdensen is Dethklok's CFO."

"Oh." Regina paused. Her eyes widened. "Wait. No fuckin' way! We get to guard DETHKLOK!" the woman raced off, screaming, "TONY! Tony we get to guard Dethklok! Fucking _Dethklok_!"

Alana shook her head. "Fucking maniacs." She pressed the HOLD button. "Silverleaf Security. Whoever you are, talk fast. I hate to be rude, but it's early and this is _not _my business number."

"Hello, Mister Ryland . . . .?"

Alana winced. She didn't want to embarrass the man on the other end, so she refrained from mentioning that her deepened voice was due to mere exhaustion and grumpiness. "Uh hello, to whom am I speaking?"

"Charles Ofdensen, Mister Ryland. Are you the executive head of Silverleaf Security?"

"Yes sir, Mister Ofdensen. You spoke to my partner, Regina Maine. We started this company with Leland Fleur as our second. Since you spoke to Miss Maine, why do you need me?"

"I was told that you are the one to discuss business with."

"Are you interested in our services, Mister Ofdensen?" Alana asked quietly.

"Yes, Mister Ryland."

"How large of a force do you want? What type of job?"

"I need a force large enough to investigate an assassination attempt, and to protect my charges until the sniper is tracked down. We have our own security force, but they have become . . . Sloppy."

"Our five companies are twenty people apiece. I can give you sixty men and women to start with."

"Seems fair. And how long do you think it would take to track down the gun dealers?"

"Six months, maybe." Alana typed some quick figures on her PDA. "Could we meet in person to discuss this? It's much easier than discussing business over the phone. I like to know what I'm getting my people into before I allow them lay down their lives." _Why the hell is he not just coming out and saying he's from Dethklok? Everybody knows who he is . . . ._

"I will have a plane waiting for you at Dulles International Airport on Wednesday. It will bring you here so we can talk. You can stay here for a night, and leave early the next morning. Alone, please. You can discuss the formalities with your partners without my presence."

"Thank you?" _Wednesday? Day after tomorrow? I need some damn time to pack!_

"Thank _you_, Mister Ryland," said Ofdensen. "Ten O'Clock Wednesday morning, Dulles International Airport. Do not forget and do not be late. Thank you."

He hung up. Alana eyed at the phone in her hand as if it had suddenly transformed into a dead rat. "Well that was pleasant," she commented.

"ARE WE GONNA GUARD DETHKLOK!" A small, heavy body slammed into her at breakneck speed. Alana braced herself against the unexpected weight. Regina peered down at Alana through a sheet of auburn hair. She squeezed Alana's waist, hysterical in her excitement. "Dethklok Dethklok Dethklok?"

"Well maybe," admitted Alana. She peeled Regina's arms from her sides. "I guess I'm going to Mordhaus Wednesday."

"What about me and Lelly?"

"Don't call him that, he hates it . . . ."

"I know," said Regina. She smirked, eyes alight with fiendish glee. "Oh well."

Alana shook her head. _If she didn't have such a nice pair of tits, I think Leland would have killed her by now. _She hid a smile. "Heh. Anyway, I guess he just wants me to come. For no clear reason. I'll put on the fancy and stuff for this guy, he's pretty damn important. Business suit it is then."

"Oh my _Gawd. _I gotta tell everyone-"

"That's not a good idea," said Alana uneasily. "Let this go for now, Gina, we don't even know if we've got the job."

"But _Alana . . . _."

"No. Seriously. Just tell everybody I went home for a couple days. Ray could probably use some attention. He's probably lonely in on Serenity Hill."

Regina hugged her friend. "Go get a suit together. You'll have a busy couple days. Got a pair of nylons that still look good?"

-(!)-

Viktoriya Belyakov did not like planes.

She loathed them, actually. Big, metal monsters defying God and gravity on a daily basis, stuffed full of flammable fuels and protected by flimsy panels . . . If God had intended man to fly, He would have given them wings. She was never comfortable on a plane. But when Ofdensen commanded her to accompany a plane to Dulles International Airport, she could do nothing obey. Forget all discomfort, an order was an order. The plane left Mordhaus early Wednesday morning and arrived at Dulles International Airport only twenty minutes shy of ten AM. A Klokateer popped onboard and informed her that there would be delays for refueling, but that A. Ryland was waiting in the airport. Viktoriya nodded curtly. The Klokateer vanished, leaving Viktoriya to herself.

Ten minutes later, a young, slender woman in a dark blue pinstriped suit climbed the stairs and entered the plane. She paused at the doorway and took in the environment, gray eyes missing nothing. Viktoriya stood up. "A. Ryland?" The woman nodded and folded her hands in front of her. She looked like a secretary, not a security guard. In her too-loose pants and too-tight jacket, she looked rather innocuous. Viktoriya resisted the urge to sneer. "I was told you were a man," she said, her tone barely polite.

"Mister Ofdensen mistook my voice for that of a man's, yes."

"How do we know that you are who you say you are?" Viktoriya demanded.

Ryland's eyes glittered with what the Klokateer assumed was amusement. "Because your boys checked me out twice, once in the terminal and once on the tarmac. They vetted my credentials. I'm the person I say I am, Miss . . . .?'

"Belyakov, head of Dethklok Security."

Ryland raised one eyebrow. "So it _is _true. We're guarding Dethklok. Why has Ofdensen asked for our services, Miss Belyakov?"

Viktoriya gestured to a seat. "Sit, please, and I'll debrief you before we reach Mordhaus."

Ryland sat down facing the head of security and eyed a tray of coffee and cookies on the table between them. She brushed off her pants and crossed her legs. Viktoriya poured herself a cup of coffee. "Mister Ofdensen mentioned, I assume, Mister Claude Decreux?"

"Yes, he did. A gun dealer?"

"Yes. Mister Decreux was taken into custody following an assassination attempt by an unknown assailant. The shooter was not found. Mister Decreux had a briefcase full of money, which Dethklok took into their own custody. At last count, I believe roughly ninety percent of that money had been used to purchase alcohol and marijuana."

Ryland grimaced. "Very good. Nothing like a little drug dependency to liven up a day. Now, why has Silverleaf been called in?"

"Mister Ofdensen believed that our forces are in need of reinforcement. It's simply a publicity thing. Your people get some money and a little recognition from the grateful fans, and the scared people are reassured that Dethklok will be safe."

"I see."

There was a hollow bang from outside the plane. Viktoriya jumped to her feet, nearly upsetting the cookie tray. She whipped out her gun before she was even aware she'd moved, muscles tensed and ready for action. Adrenaline flooded her veins. Her head swung this way and that, searching for the source of the noise. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. It was deafening to her heightened senses.

Ryland remained calm. As far as Viktoriya had seen, she had not reacted upon hearing the noise. She took a cup of coffee from the tray. "Problem, Miss Belyakov?" se asked mildly.

"A proper guard is vigilant and thorough," Viktoriya spat, her eyes bright with fury. Her cheeks burned crimson, more in embarrassment than anger. "You'd know that if you were good at your job!"

"If _you _were good at _yours_," came the reply, "you would recognize that Mister Ofdensen's request was no mere publicity stunt, Miss Belyakov."

Viktoriya aimed the gun at Ryland. "What?"

"Your people never searched me." Ryland was calm despite the shaking barrel in her face. A gun that big could have blown her head off, but still the woman made no movement. "They vetted me, and looked through my bag coming through the gate, just once. They never did pat me down, or even wand me. They're rather poor at their job, aren't they?"

"Excuse me?" Viktoriya growled, voice dripping venom.

Ryland laughed and sipped her coffee. "Don't worry, the knife in my shoulder sheath is too small to cut a woman's throat. The gun in the ankle holster is false. I didn't expect to use it. It buys time though, and makes a good paperweight. Recently, I had surgery on my knee, so I can't fight you hand-to-hand anyhow in case I can't make it to my knife." She sighed. "Nasty soccer match."

Viktoriya's eye twitched. "You're . . . armed?"

"Why yes, I always am. You have to be with a job like ours."

Viktoriya flicked off the safety on her gun. Her trembling hand steadied. "Our job is _not_ the same," she hissed. "You are _nothing _like me!"

"No, I'm not. I have no constant job. I imagine guarding Dethklok can be very . . . Strenuous."

"You have _no _idea," muttered Viktoriya. "You've never been around Master Toki when he's sugar-high, or Master Pickles when he's had a few too many."

"No," agreed Ryland, "can't say I have." She leaned forward. "Miss Belyakov, I assure you, I'm not here to steal your job. Silverleaf is my company, _my_ bread and butter, and I could never leave it. I'm here for a little money for my people and the chance to work with the Klokateers. I've heard your people have excellent sniper rifles."

"Not just any rifles," Viktoriya said, "the best in the business. Custom made for Mordhaus. We even got some DethRifles from the military last month. Perfect size to fit in a briefcase. They're fantastic. Much better than anything you _civilians_ have." It was interesting how easily Klokateer Belyakov turned the word "civilian" into a slur.

Klokateer Belyakov holstered her weapon and sat down. The stormy rage vanished from her brow. Alana chose to take this as a good sign. She offered a polite smile and sipped her coffee, not nettled by the crudeness in her voice. "So. What's the range on a weapon like that?"

Viktoriya launched into a description of the DR1440, emphasizing the superior qualities of the brutal gun. Alana noticed that the woman had drawn herself up and puffed out her chest, determined to gloat before the measly civilian. The arrogant, proud expression had returned to her face; her control on the situation had been reestablished. Alana chose not to test her temper again. She listened to the Klokateer with interest, wondering if she could get her hands on such a weapon.

The plane was cleared and departed Dulles fifteen minutes later, and for awhile, Viktoriya and Alana could almost be considered friendly.

-(!)-

Toki rose from sleep into a world of fire.

Fire burned in the corners of his room, spread cross the ceiling, melted the model planes hanging there. He tried to scream but there was no air. He coughed instead; a hoarse, desperate sound that tore his throat raw. _Am I in hell? _he wondered. _Am I going to die?_

Snow settled on his head, stinging hot. He brushed it away, biting back a scream when it burned his fingertips. Was he standing underneath a tree in his native Norway, too cold to feel his own face? No, he wasn't. And it wasn't snow, it was ash and cinders. He was trapped in the middle of a fire, and he had no way to escape. The fire roared higher, seeking to devour the (boy?) man in its path. Instead of leaping from the bed, Toki paused to look at his hand. It was covered in strawberry milkshake that looked like brains.

That was when he awoke, flailing and screaming in Norwegian.

When his bony ass hit the floor he regained awareness of his location. He was in Mordhaus, in his own bedroom. There was no fire, only a joint, probably left by a very stoned Pickles, smoldering in an ashtray beside his bed. Toki poured the dregs of a soda can onto the joint with a hand that shook.

So the dreams, then. Dreams left behind by a fear of fire and a fear of losing his family. The other boys might have been douche bags at times, but their deaths (inevitable, in Toki's mind) would cripple the young guitarist when they finally occurred. He knew they would die, because he brought death to everyone he loved. It was his fate, and the encounter in the mall proved it. The image of Skwisgaar's blood-and-brains (no, milkshake!) haunted his dreams.

Toki crawled off the floor and dressed. It was a cool afternoon, but sun shone through the windows of Mordhaus, giving warmth to the cold stone walls. Happy to be awake, Toki strolled down the hallway, whistling. The sun was shining, the yard wolves were playing, and it was a fantastic day. Hopefully, Jean-Pierre was preparing some sort of dessert. Preferably a chocolate cake. Toki loved chocolate.

As Toki passed Ofdensen's office, he noticed Murderface skulking around in the shadows at the end of the hallway. He held a dagger, stained with fresh blood, in one hand. "What's ams you doing, Moidaface?" chirped Toki.

Murderface glared at the guitarist. "What does it matter to you, dildo?"

Toki shrugged. He knew that Murderface was abrasive, and he had learned to shrug off the abuse long ago. "Justs wonderings."

Murderface narrowed his eyes. "I was cleaning my knives and I slipped and I cut myself." He held up his hand, displaying the jagged tear on his palm. "Then I remembered that Ofdensen still has my damn mace and my fucking shoes. I was gonna go in there and get them 'cause they didn't come with the morning mail run and I'm fucking tired of waiting!"

"Brutals." Toki shrugged again. "Does managers-man have any candies?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" demanded Murderface. "I haven't been in there! Quit fucking asking stupid bullshit questions!"

"Maybes cookings-man has chocolates cake." Toki wandered off down the hall, hungry. He heard Murderface mutter darkly behind him, but he blocked out the noise. Nothing was going to ruin his hope for cake. His stomach rumbled; he licked his lips. Mm. Diabetes.

Jean-Pierre had indeed prepared several pre-dinner desserts, including the eagerly-anticipated chocolate cake and homemade mint ice cream. Toki dug into a thick, rich slice of the delectable treat while Jean-Pierre watched approvingly, confident once more than today was going to be a fantastic day.

Toki was so absorbed in his sweets, he didn't notice the plane land outside of Mordhaus.

-(!)-

Viktoriya Belyakov and her passenger emerged from the Dethplane five minutes before their scheduled arrival time. Viktoriya resisted the impulse to kiss the ground when her feet touched tarmac. Behind her, Ryland stretched luxuriously, long arms reaching for the gray sky. Viktoriya put her out of her mind. She searched for the convoy meant to drive them to Mordhaus. She saw only empty runways and patches of clear blue sky. "Joy," Viktoriya muttered. When she turned, Ryland bent at the waist, displaying admirable flexibility for such a skinny woman. At first, Viktoriya's eye passed right over her. She was more interested in the limo and honor guard.

"Miss Belyakov?"

Viktoriya turned. Ryland tossed her the gun and the sheathed knife. Viktoriya caught them. She stared at Ryland, whose calm expression never wavered. Viktoriya had forgotten entirely about the weaponry. "You . . . Distracted me . . . For five hours?" she demanded, the first cold trickles of horror flooding her veins.

Ryland's gray eyes were stony. "You have much to relearn," she commented, voice mild. "Thank God that gun's plugged, eh?"

"_Bitch_," Viktoriya snarled. "_MY _gun isn't plugged! Remember that!"

"Better a live bitch than a dead fool," replied Ryland, and strode off toward a black-and-red limo in the distance, bag swinging on her hip. Viktoriya scowled, stuffed the weapons in her pockets, and hastened to catch up with her charge.

-(!)-

William Murderface did not share his band mate's opinion on the quality of the day. He had awoken at dawn, and spent the majority of the morning cleaning weapons and designing a website for Planet Piss while the ugly, flat yellow of the muggy early morning gave way to a clear, solid blue. The humid fog burned off as morning turned to afternoon. Murderface moved from spiked codpieces to daggers, and almost immediately sustained a cut from the sharpest of his knives.

Somehow, the familiar pain jogged his memory.

"Ofdensen," he muttered aloud. "It's been two days!"

He hauled himself to his feet, ignoring thin rivulets of blood dripping from his callused palm, and strode down the hall toward Ofdensen's office. He met Toki, who blabbered about candy and something diabetes-related as usual. Murderface used all of his charismatic powers to coax the boy to leave him alone. Toki went blithely on his way, and finally Murderface was left to himself. He reached for the door-

"My Lord! You're bleeding!"

"I know," Murderface grunted, not turning. "Leave me alone."

The Klokateer gripped his shoulder. "My Lord!"

Murderface swung his arm around and backhanded the Klokateer. His bloody fist connected with the woman's jaw, producing a solid thump. She cried out and rocked back on her heels. Blood burst from her nose in torrents. "FUCK!" roared Murderface. He held his stinging hand to his body. His heart pounded heavily in his chest. The shock tore through his hand all the way up to his elbow like a nest of overloaded electrical wires. "FUCK! FUCK!" It stung horribly. The waves of agony seemed in sync with his pulse. He bit down another scream, hating and relishing the pain at the same time.

"My Lord!" gasped the Klokateer. She reached out to him with a hand that trembled. "My Lord, My Lord, I am so sorry . . . ."

"Guess you should take me to the hospital now," hissed Murderface through gritted teeth. "Don't fuckin startle me like that again! Stupid fucking broad!"

The sheepish Klokateer led Murderface down to the hospital, murmuring apologies the whole way. The bassist ignored her. He allowed a doctor to bandage his hand. He didn't care about the fussing. He just wanted out so he could break down Ofdensen's door. He had waited three weeks for that fucking mace, and four weeks for those fucking shoes, and heaven help Ofdensen's soul if he didn't have them.

Half an hour later, Murderface and his gauze wrapped hand were standing in front of the butler's door again. The cut burned and stung, but Murderface rather enjoyed the pain. It kept him grounded to reality. He raised his good hand and knocked on the door. "Robot!"

The response came instantly. "Murderface, now is not the time."

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" Murderface bellowed at the top of his voice.

There was a pause. Then, a subdued, "Come in, then."

Murderface opened the door.

The first thing Murderface noticed was the short, skinny broad in the suit standing before Ofdensen's enormous desk. He couldn't see her face, only her back, which didn't interest him; and her ass, which looked pretty damn good. Her black hair was tightly clamped to the back of her head. She stood, stiff and rigid, a few inches shorter than Murderface himself even in heels. She moved to the side, providing the bassist with a view of Ofdensen.

Murderface crossed the room to the desk and slammed his palms down on it. He leaned in close to Ofdensen. "Where is my mace?" he demanded. Ofdensen calmly wiped spittle from his cheek with a handkerchief. "I want my fucking mace! I want my fucking shoes!"

Ofdensen pinched the bridge of his nose. "They arrived this morning, and a Klokateer will bring them to your dungeon as soon as possible. Happy? Now I'm a little busy, if you don't mind."

The woman turned. She looked Murderface up and down once, face expressionless. She offered a small, polite smile. Murderface eyed her suspiciously. "Who's this?"

"This is my assistant, Miss Ryland."

"Alana." The woman offered Murderface her hand. He ignored her.

"Why the hell do you need an assistant?"

"I felt it was, ah, necessary," responded Ofdensen. He picked up his cell phone and typed something. When he set it down again, he looked up at Murderface. "Your weaponry has been delivered to your room. Now, Miss Ryland and I have business to attend to. Go enjoy your shoes."

Murderface crossed the room and slammed the door behind him, leaving Alana alone with Ofdensen once more.

When Murderface had gone, Alana smiled hesitantly at Ofdensen. "He seemed happy to have me here," she joked, uneasy.

Mister Ofdensen didn't smile back. "Murderface, ah, doesn't like people. Especially women, unless they're, ah, sleeping with him."

Alana frowned. "Well I can assure you, I will not be sleeping with anyone," she said flatly. "Count on that. That is not professional."

"Very good, Miss Ryland. Now that your prices have been stated, what else can you offer my people here besides bodyguards? Trust me when I say this is ah, important to us. Other things need to be done."

Mister Ofdensen was a lot less confident in his speech in person, Alana noticed. "Twenty-four hour surveillance," she said, folding her hands before her. "You say you have a DNA database and a file on every single Klokateer. We have connections. We can test each Klokateer to determine they are who they say they are, update any intelligence you have on them, and weed out those who may prove a danger to your clients. We can run checks on all your computer networks and lock this place up. Your men may have to stay indoors for awhile, but we'll be sure to protect them everywhere they go. We'll work with your Klokateers to provide training for them, and establish some of them as teachers, so they can continue to do well when we're gone." She smiled. "And I promise you: we will catch whomever Claude Decreux sold his gun to. We'll find that gun, and we'll end this tension."

Mister Ofdensen stood up. He offered his hand. "Miss Ryland, you're hired," he said. "Just try not to annoy Miss Belyakov anymore; I hate listening to her."

Alana shook. Just wait until Regina heard about this.

-(!)-

After Alana's meeting with Ofdensen, she encountered a Klokateer, who accompanied her to a small, plain room with a neatly-made bed and a private bathroom. Her suitcase stood in one corner. "You stay here," commanded the Klokateer, ushering her in. "Dinner is at 5. You will be brought a meal. If you need anything, a Klokateer will be standing outside your door."

Alana thanked him. When he had gone, she sat on the bed and signed paperwork Ofdensen had given her. First, a limited Pain Waiver. Dethklok was not personally responsible for any injury she sustained this night at Mordhaus, but for six months they would pay for any injury her people sustained out of the funds already provided. The pay was incredible, and the healthcare was more than she could have afforded. She read each contract slowly and carefully, signed, and placed the papers in a folder to bring home for Regina. Leland would want to read them as well. Her two closest friends deserved to know exactly what was going to happen.

It was strange, she reflected. Fifteen years ago, the security firm had consisted of three people, barely out of their teens, protecting houses from neighbors with a grudge. The money originated from a check left for her by her deceased father, a stunning quarter of a million dollars. Alana's mother had seen none of this money. Perhaps that was what had made her so bitter towards her daughter. They fought often about the cash, which Alana planned to use for college. She left home a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday with enough cash for apartment rent. She lived for six months in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment outside Los Angeles, sharing a futon with her roommate, a shivering kid a year younger than herself. She barely supported herself with two jobs, her only companion a ragged tomcat that kept the mice away. When the kid left, Alana was more lonely than ever.

Everything changed so quickly after that. Regina had come, and Silverleaf had been tentatively established outside LA. The company grew stunningly, the $250,000 initial investment growing into over a million within four years. Silverleaf shifted their headquarters to Virginia. The employee roster expanded: first three, then fifteen, then twenty five. Within five years the company had fifty security guards all working minimum wage in private jobs, confident in the dream that Alana had started. The golden age began.

Silverleaf was by no means a huge name in the public mind. They had guarded musicians before, but never on this scale, and never with any form of public recognition. Their reputation was passed by word of mouth. They made enough to get by, not enough to establish an empire. This was the chance of a lifetime for Alana and her partner. She couldn't wait to get started.

A knock on the door dragged her from her thoughts. She sat on the bed and watched the door open. A Klokateer came in, bearing a tray of food. It appeared to be chicken, and it smelled divine. "Your dinner, miss," he said.

Alana smiled. "Thank you." The Klokateer set the tray down on a nightstand. He stood at attention, waiting for her to say anything. She pondered for a moment. "Can you . . . Perhaps . . . Get me the number for the local authorities? I'd like some information on Claude Decreux."

The Klokateer chuckled. "Eager to get started, are we? Please wait a moment." He strode out of the room.

The woman turned to her food. She ate while she waited for the Klokateer to return. Five minutes later, he did indeed return with a slip of paper. "Information. Just mention Dethklok and you'll get your answers," he said. "They accommodate the band."

"Thank you, Mister . . . .?"

"Klokateer 1779428."

Alana blinked. They referred to their employees with a number?

"Thank you, sir," she said, hoping her confusion didn't show in her voice. The Klokateer nodded and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Alana dialed the number. It rang once, then clicked. "Hello?" asked a deep, male voice.

"Hello, Sir," she said, voice steady and polite. "This is Alana Ryland, of Silverleaf Security."

"And? What d'you want?"

"I need any information you may have on Claude Decreux. I've been hired by Dethklok's Charles Ofdensen. I'd like to know anything your people have found out about him."

"This is a private number, Miss Ryland . . . My desk number for work. I know I haven't given Dethklok my card. How the hell did you get it?"

"A Klokateer gave it to me."

"Miss Ryland, Claude Decreux is-" The sound of a siren in the background scared Alana half to death. She yelped. The piercing wail was agony on her ears. "What the hell is going on?" the man bellowed, then the phone was dropped with a _klunk_! Alana heard a muffled, "Ah, shit!" and the sound of running feet. The call ended.

Frowning, ears ringing, Alana stared at her cell. "What the . . . .?"

She sat in silence for awhile. She tried calling the phone number again, but it was busy. She groaned in frustration and lay back for ten minutes, staring hard at the ceiling, cell phone clenched in one hand. She closed her eyes and released a breath through clenched teeth. What bullshit. The wait was excruciating. She had the beginnings of a case in her teeth and she loathed being balked. _Come on, call back. What the hell is wrong with you?_

The phone vibrated in her hand. She squeaked. Her eyes flew open; she sat up fast and checked the number. It was the same number one had just called. She flipped open her phone. "So, why are you trying to deafen me?"

"Miss Ryland, I'm in no mood for jokes!" snapped the man from earlier. There was no siren in the background, but a number of shouting voices, all indistinct, had replaced it.

"Oh really? I'm in no mood to be ignored when I ask about Claude Decreux!"

The man took a deep breath. Alana sensed anger and wisely kept her mouth shut against further nagging. "Miss Ryland," he said, as calmly as possible, "Mister Decreux killed himself mere minutes ago."

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews please? I love feedback. ^_^<strong>


	3. Day 0

**So, here is chapter 3. And I can't believe I haven't said this before, but I'd like to acknowledge my beta, dragonzfire718! She's been a huge help. Thank you! ^_^  
>Away Chapter 3!<strong>

**Chapter 3: Settling In**

Ofdensen was not present when Alana returned to Mordhaus two days later (Viktoriya Belyakov was also absent, and for this Alana was grateful). Instead, a silent Klokateer and a manila folder awaited her at the front door. It contained her instructions and a short letter.

_Miss Ryland:_

_Today is your day to look over Mordhaus and interview the band. Ask them about any important connections that could lead to Claude Decreux's clientele. In the meantime I have arranged for Miss Maine and Companies 1, 2, and 4 to meet out on the grounds tomorrow morning. Today, ask any questions you want. Roam anywhere in Mordhaus as long as your Klokateer guard authorizes it. If you disobey the Klokateer, he will report to Miss Belyakov, who will be more than happy to introduce you to the Dethrifle. Ask questions. Keep your ears and eyes open. Take any notes you need, but remember that you are under close scrutiny from Miss Belyakov and her chosen. This is an opportunity to get ahead of your employees and find anything immediately repairable. I'd advise you take it._

_Miss Maine spoke to me about your DNA testing procedures. I am allowing a series of tents to be set up out on the front lawn. You will have a fence and a guard to prevent your work from being intruded upon by yard wolves. Equipment will be waiting for you._

_Your six months starts tomorrow morning at 8AM._

_Charles F. Ofdensen, Dethklok CFO_

_P.S. I have told the members of Dethklok that you are my assistant, to prevent any ill feelings while I am away. In the morning I will explain to them who you are and what you plan on doing. Their vacation fund went into your paychecks; there is bound to be some discord among them._

Alana groaned loudly. At least she'd worn a suit. Nice to look professional when pretending to be a professional. She glanced at her guard. "1779428?"

"No," he said. He didn't look down at her. His voice was much deeper than 1779428's. "My number is unimportant Miss."

Alana gave up. "Okay then. So uh . . . I'll check out the band then." She examined the rest of the folder. It contained a file on all the Dethklok members, Doctor Twinkletits, Viktoriya Belyakov, Leonard Rockstein, a French chef by the name of Jean-Pierre; and some wild-looking man named Dick Knubbler. It also contained photographs and names of all the band parents. The damn thing was a treasure trove that any fan would die to have. Regina might explode with excitement.

Speaking of excitement, Nathan Explosion was walking toward her, looking grim. Alana frowned. Oh shit. An encounter already? Five minutes into the assignment? This was definitely not good. She clenched her fists. _I'm an assistant,_ she thought, and forced herself to relax. She smiled pleasantly and met Nathan's eye. Now, her first test: Seeing if she could tolerate Dethklok and their insanity. Because washing out would be very, very bad for her paycheck.

-(!)-

Nathan Explosion was not in a good mood.

For one, the new album was shit. 83 deleted tracks and it still was not brutal enough. Murderface was fucking up even more vividly than normal, and it was impossible to mix him out of the only decent song. They would all have to be re-recorded. ALL of them.

For two, the butler had vanished. Apparently he had work in Milan. Before he left, he instructed all the Klokateers to keep Dethklok indoors for the next several days. Being stuck in Mordhaus was driving Nathan crazy. Sure, he usually spent all day indoors anyway, but being forbidden from something only intensified Nathan's rebellious side. He wanted out.

For three, his mom kept calling him. Nathan knew she was just going to bitch about their Dethrifle endorsement. He didn't want to deal with it any more. He wanted to get peacefully drunk without having to hear that fucking guitar riff every five minutes. His voicemail was officially full, and his stockpile of patience was officially empty.

Sulking, Nathan stalked toward the front door, where a Klokateer had taken to standing during the band's waking hours, to prevent anyone from leaving without the butler's permission. Even if Nathan couldn't leave Mordhaus, it would be fun to heckle the poor man until he went half-crazy. When he approached the front door, however, he found a change. A young woman with hair as dark as his own stood before the door, clutching a manila envelope. She looked pale and nervous. Nathan grinned slowly. Perfect. Someone to terrorize. Maybe he could slip a firecracker into her blouse.

"Who the fuck are you?" he bellowed. The sound was more animal than human. Very satisfying. If this broad didn't piss herself, he would be very surprised.

The woman smiled hesitantly and tottered forward on low heels. She stuck out one small hand. "Hello, Mister Explosion, I'm Alana Ryland . . . Mister Ofdensen's assistant."

Nathan looked her up and down. She was a short, skinny little thing; no boobs, thick legs. She pressed her manila folder to her chest. She stared at him, every inch the polite little assistant. He scowled and glared down his nose at her. "Assistant?" _Fucking robot better not be using OUR money for this . . . ._

"Yes, sir."

"Then go assist."

"Mister Ofdensen isn't here." The woman took a deep breath. "Mister Explosion, I'm supposed to interview the band . . . ."

"And?" grunted Nathan, turning away.

"Please, Sir, if you could speak to me for awhile . . . ."

"Then follow me and shut up." Nathan stalked off toward the kitchen, hoping for some food and peace. He waited for the woman to chatter, but she remained quiet. _Oh, well. Soon she'll start asking shitty questions about . . . My favorite flavor of cake or some bullshit. Jesus fuck, what if she wants to be in a show? Fucking Assistants Gone Wild? She doesn't have enough tits for that!_

"Um, Mister Explosion?"

Good God, the bitch had the nerve to interrupt his thought process! He turned, slowly, menacingly, baring his teeth. "What?" he growled, putting all his heart into it.

"Where are we going, sir?"

Nathan paused. Where _was _he going? He had forgotten already. "Game room? Nah. Kitchen. Food."

Nathan Explosion was a man of few words when it came to annoying little girls. He strode off without bothering to pay attention.

The prim woman followed Nathan into the cavernous kitchen. Her heels clicked quietly on the stone floor. It was driving him insane. He wanted to tell her to take off her shoes before he punched her hard enough to knock her out of them. She stood by the counter island and watched him, hands folded before her. Nathan hesitated. "You're . . . Ofdensen's assistant?" he asked.

A frown crossed her pale face. "Yes, Mister Explosion."

"No you're not."

She cocked her head. "Why do you disbelieve me?"

Nathan shrugged. In truth, he didn't know. It was a hunch, that was all. Somehow, the way she stood, feet slightly apart, legs balanced, convinced him that she was not here to file paperwork and spend all day on the phone. He couldn't articulate the unease he felt when he saw how she watched him, gray eyes missing absolutely nothing. And for some reason, Nathan knew that she was much more than an assistant. Her hands twitched every time he spoke. Her gaze analyzed everything instead of merely passing over minutiae. Her weight shifted constantly from side to side. She did not look comfortable in that suit. Her shoulders strained under the coat. Nathan knew very little about suits, but he was fairly certain they were personally tailored to prevent that from happening. Charles Ofdensen lived in suits. He was comfortable in them. This woman was not.

Nathan couldn't figure out how to explain this, so he flatly stated, "Because the robot doesn't need an assistant."

"He's not a robot."

"He is too," someone responded.

Nathan glanced over the short woman's head. It was Pickles, already half-drunk at one in the afternoon. "Yeah," he mumbled. He sat down at the counter and took a book from the counter, now dead to the world. Pickles grabbed a beer from the counter and popped it open. He tapped the floor and drummed his fingers on his thigh as he took a swig.

The woman with the curly black hair turned to greet him. A small, polite smile curved her lips. He eyed her appreciatively and smiled back. She was very pretty. No boobs, but still nice. There was something vaguely familiar about that pointed chin and tiny nose. She reached out to shake his hand. Then her smile faded. Pickles saw the way her shoulders tensed. Her hand dropped back to her side.

There was a silence. Pickles' face fell. The woman continued studying him like a scientific specimen under a microscope. "C'n I help ya?" he asked, irritated.

The woman smiled again, but this seemed more genuine. Her eyes glowed warmly. Recognition flitted across his drug-stupefied mind. Then it was gone. "Nigel brought you a Chihuahua," she said. Her voice was low and clear, deep but not masculine.

His eyes widened. "What?"

"Pickles," grunted Nathan, "this is-"

"This is a huge bitch," interrupted Pickles. He grinned, unable to help himself. "What a crazy bitch."

Alana Ryland strode forward. Nathan looked up in time to see her raise her arms. At first he thought she was going to strike Pickles, and he tried to look indifferent, but then he saw Pickles raise his arms and hug the woman tightly, crushing her to his chest. A ripple of female laughter echoed in the room.

Pickles clapped her companionably on the back. "Hell, Lana," he said into her shoulder. "Been awhile!"

"Sixteen years, Lee," responded Alana kindly. She held him out at arm's length, looking him up and down. "You look good though, considering."

"Fuck off," he responded, and winked at her.

She laughed. Her hand brushed his shoulder. "I've been wondering all this time if I was right. I thought it was you. I went underground a little, never really knew about Snakes n' Barrels until two weeks ago. I wasn't sure you were the same person. Despite the eyeliner." Pickles flipped her off.

"This is Detklok," interrupted Nathan coolly. He went back to his book, marveling at how stupid of a bitch this must be to confuse the mighty Dethklok with a bullshit band like Snakes N' Barrels.

Alana ducked her head, looking ashamed. Her hand closed over Pickles's shoulder and briefly squeezed. "I knew that . . . I only meant I haven't really seen much television. Or listened to much music. No time for fan-obsession."

"Did ya torch yer TV?" inquired Pickles, gently dislodging her hand. "Can't 'magine ya missing an episode of _MacGyver._"

"I've been busy . . . building."

"Buildings? Mores renovation?" Skwisgaar stalked into the room. His Gibson was slung over his shoulder, but for once he wasn't practicing. He appeared to be pouting. "Moidaface tooks my vodkas," he informed them glumly. Then he stopped in his tracks and offered a charming smile to Alana. "Hellos, can I helps you?"

Alana remained calm. "You must be Mister Swigelf."

"Ja." He winked.

"I am Alana Ryland." She shook hands with the lead guitarist. "Silverleaf Security."

"What?" growled Nathan. He stood up. Alana had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. "Security? What the fuck is security doing here?"

"I was hired by Mister Ofdensen," she said politely, unfazed. In her life, Alana Ryland had faced down brutes bigger than this one. She was not intimidated by the coldness in his voice, but she was wary about his size and apparent strength. "I was supposed to tell you that I am his assistant, but it appears you've found me out already anyway. There's no point in a charade." She grimaced. "I can't pass myself off as an assistant. I am here to protect your men."

"We have Klakateers," Pickles put in.

"Yes, you do. But apparently they are not strong or smart enough to properly care for you, otherwise you wouldn't have been shot at, am I correct?" "We can takes cares of ourselves," retorted Skwisgaar, drawing himself up indignantly. "We ams safe."

"Mister Ofdensen does not agree. He paid me for six months of your time. Unfortunately, your vacation fund was used for my salary."

"WHAT?" thundered Nathan.

"Well Murderface will be pissed," muttered Pickles. He took a slug of beer. "We was s'posed tah go tah Civil War battle sites and stuff."

"It will have to wait," replied Alana, still maddeningly calm.

"Fucks yous!" exclaimed Skwisgaar. "I'm sorry, gentlemen."

"I'm gonna fuckin kill him," growled Nathan. Fury was written on every harsh line of his face.

Alana looked pained. "Mister Explosion, Mister Ofdensen acted in your best interests."

"Alana," said Pickles angrily, grabbing her shoulder hard enough to turn his fingertips white, "we don't need ta hide. We don't need ya!"

"I'm not saying you do, Lee," she said. The kindness in her voice hurt. Ashamed of his anger, Pickles looked down at his scuffed sneakers and released her. Damn his hot temper! "We're going to identify all your employees, retrain them, reassign them. This is our job. I'm not here to get in the way."

"Then what _ams _you heres fors?" asked Skwisgaar.

Alana drew away from Pickles, straightened her suit coat, and plucked a stray red hair from her shoulder. Something about those actions hurt Pickles's heart. "I am here for one reason. Claude Decreux."

"That fuckin douche bag in the mall?" asked Nathan.

Alana nodded. "Claude Decreux killed himself a few nights ago. Cut his own throat. Bled out alone in his cell."

"Brutal," said Pickles approvingly.

Alana turned to look at him, a frown creasing her smooth face. "We lost our only witness to the shooter, Lee. We lost our dealer."

"Beh, who gives a fack? Let 'im rot."

Alana rounded on Pickles. He recoiled, stunned by the sudden ferocity that rolled off the diminutive woman in waves. She straightened up to her full height of 5"1' (plus two inches in heels). "Claude Decreux sold the gun to someone who tried to kill you," she said tightly. "We need to know who he sold it to. Your Klokateers need to be trained, and Mister Ofdensen needs to be put . . . At ease . . . Concerning your safety. This is _important_, Lee. We need to know how those guns got out of lockup in Tulsa, and how they ended up here. More importantly, before one of you dies, we need to catch those responsible for the assassination attempt. If a member of Dethklok dies, Lee, the world will descend into madness."

Pickles ducked his head, abashed. Silence fell again. Alana glared at each of the Dethklok members in turn. They shared uncomfortable glances. No one spoke. Far off in the distance, Murderface shouted something. Pickles took a huge gulp of beer. The lack of conversation was biting at him, digging under his skin. He wanted to say something, anything, to relieve the pressure in his chest.

"Why's yous callings him Lees?" Skwisgaar wanted to know. His innocent question finally broke the tension. "He ams Pickle."

Alana allowed herself a grudging chuckle. Pickles glanced at her. She had relaxed, her stiff posture resuming the loose attention position. "First time I met him, I told him he looked like Lee Harvey Oswald." She glanced at Pickles. He grinned back at her, rubbing the back of his neck. "He was annoyed, but the nickname stuck, whether he liked it or not. So he's Lee to me."

Nathan looked up from his book. "Isn't that the guy that . . . uhh . . . Blew out Kennedy's brains?"

"Who ams this Kennedys agains?" spoke up Skwisgaar.

Alana frowned at him. She wondered if he was serious. "Go ask Mister Murderface. You did buy Kennedy's limo after all."

Skwisgaar shook his head, making his blonde hair fly. His hand raced up and down his Gibson strings with stunning ease. "He ams dildos. I asks him nothings. I wants my vodkas back."

Alana hesitated, perhaps trying to understand the Swedish man's rambling. There was a momentary pause. Alana cleared her throat, feeling awkward. "Where is . . ." she consulted her folder briefly, "Mister Toki . . . Wartooth?"

"Probably hanging with that dumbass clown," grunted Nathan. "Follow the smell of cocaine."

"Toki ams in his rooms," said Skwisgaar. "Go offs and bothers him, ja?"

"I'll show ya his room," offered Pickles.

"Thank you, Lee." She nodded to the other men. "Gentlemen. I will see you later."

"Don't bet on it," Nathan grumbled under his breath, as Pickles and Alana departed. When they were gone, he heaved a heavy sigh. "Fucking Charles! We lost our vacation fund for this?"

"We needs better scur-ties," said Skwisgaar with a shrug. He took a bottle of beer from the granite-topped kitchen island. "If Butlers-man need helps, he ams gettings helps from sexy goil."

"Help in more ways than one," grumbled Nathan.

Skwisgaar blinked. There was a moment of silence. Finally, he smiled and voiced an awkward laugh. "Funnys Nat'an."

"Skwisgaar, fuck off."

-(!)-

Pickles led Alana down a vast hallway towards his band-mate's room. "Toki's room is just up here, yeah," he muttered absently, gesturing down the hall. Alana strode beside him, silent and professional. She was a little taller than Pickles remembered. Maybe it was just the heels. He shrugged, restless, hands tapping his thighs. It was his nervous habit. He couldn't help himself. It was the ADHD part of him that had drawn him to drumming in the first place. He was constantly tapping and inventing new rhythms to use in songs. "He's a crazy dood. Kinda like a little girl. Acts like a fuckin douche bag sometimes. But I think yer gonna like him."

"Thank you, Lee," she said stiffly. "Pickles, now?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I was Lee, and now I'm Pickles."

"Where'd that come from? Your liver?"

"Shut up."

Her eyes glinted behind the mask of indifference. "As you wish, Sir."

Her tone did not hold a trace of mockery, but the drummer bristled as if she'd laughed at his expense. He felt like tearing out his hair. What remained of it, anyway. Just being around this woman drove him mad. It was like tiny bugs nipping at his ears. He took a deep breath and let it out, slowly, through his teeth, trying to calm the rage bubbling in the pit of his stomach. "Bitch."

She smirked but said nothing.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Twice Pickles tried to start a conversation, and twice he was met with a cool stare and silence. It was so _awkward _around her, considering their history. Only a few years before, they had shared a futon in an icebox of a room somewhere in the LA slums. Now, she was a security guard and he was world-famous. He hated being so uncomfortable. She was just a woman, after all. Sure she was a woman he'd known longer than he'd known anyone from Dethklok. Sure, she reminded him of a time when his life was bleaker. Seeing her again still shouldn't have pissed him off as much as it did. By the time they reached Toki's room, Pickles was frustrated and desperate for a drink. He felt no identifiable emotions. They were all mixed together, roiling and seething in his beer-soaked brain. All he knew for certain was that seeing Alana made him feel sick to his stomach.

Alana halted by Toki's door and folded her hands, looking at her former roommate expectantly. An unusually somber Pickles opened the door for her. She slipped around him and stood just inside the bedroom. Toki looked up from his desk, bright eyes wide with interest. Alana noted the parts to a model plane scattered across the desktop. "Hellos?" he said uncertainly.

"Mister Wartooth, my name is Alana Ryland. I'm here to talk to you. I was sent from Silverleaf Security. We were hired by your CFO, Mister Charles Ofdensen. May I speak with you?"

Toki shrugged. "Comes in, ja," he said.

Alana nodded. When Pickles tried to follow her into the room, she placed a hand flat on his chest. She pushed him back gently but firmly. "This will be a _private _conversation, thank you," she said, and shut the door in his face.

Pickles stared at the closed door, jaw agape. _Fucking bitch._

Slowly, he took a fistful of dreadlocks in each hand and tugged. The resulting pain was somehow very satisfying.

-(!)-

"So, Mister Wartooth . . . ."

"Please, Miss, its ams Toki."

Alana coughed. "Very well, Toki. You were, of course, present when the mall shooting occurred on Friday?"

"Yes, Miss Lana."

"Just Alana, please, Mister Wartooth."

Toki smiled. He had a charming little-boy's smile, very sweet and innocent and genuine. He was a charming young man, and Alana felt more at ease around him than even Pickles. Certainly he was less of a scoundrel than Mister Swigelf. "You ams Alana if I ams Toki," he said. "Okies?"

Alana laughed and allowed herself to relax. "All right, Toki. So. Do you remember seeing anything before the gunshot?"

Toki pondered a moment. His crystal-blue eyes narrowed with concentration. "Skwisgaar was whinings likes a little women, and Pickle was smokings, and Nathans was hittings Moidaface and tellings him to be shuttings up."

"And the band mothers were walking together?"

"They ams always walkings together," said Toki. "They likes to be drunks all the times."

Alana was certain that the loathing in his voice was unintentional, but it unnerved her anyway. She winced, writing some notes in a fat black notebook. "Joy. So. When the shot went off, what did you see?"

"The Gears pulleds ours mom to the ground. Pickle dropped his joints. And then there was bloods and brain but it was nots blood, it was milkshakes because Skwisgaar wanted his dildos drink, and he was flirtings with the pretty lady. . . ."

"Did you see anyone on the level above you? On the walkways?"

"Lot of peoples. Fan everywheres. Too manys peoples." Toki shrugged. He fiddled with an airplane propeller. Then he looked at Alana, sitting on a little footstool in the corner, ankle resting against her knee, providing a rough table for her notebook. "Dats chair ams hard. You cans sits on de beds. You know, if yous likes."

"Thank you, Toki, but I'm fine." Alana scribbled some quick notes. "So. Have you received any threats recently?"

"Noes."

"No one making you feel . . . Uncomfortable?'

"Skwisgaar ams dildos, he makes me un-kum-fet-bells alls the time."

"What are your most recent business agreements?"

"Wells, dere was the bloods-and-brain flavored lollipops, and the zombies poppings corn. . . ."

"Any business opportunities that you've taken independently?"

"Noes." Though his voice was steady, Alana sensed something beneath the surface. He sounded almost guilty.

"Are you sure?"

"Ja!" Toki glared. The effect of the stare was spoiled by the trembling of his lips, the rapid twitch of his feet. "New questions?" His aggressive tone booked no room for argument.

"I can't think of any," admitted Alana, deciding to switch topics. "Is there anything important that you want to tell me?"

"Yes." Toki took a deep breath. "I ams happies you ams here, Miss Alana. Even ifs we don'ts get to go ons da vacations."

Alana started. "How did you know?"

"I heards da butlers-man," Toki confessed. "Thanks ya, Miss Alana."

Alana smiled. Maybe dealing with Mordhaus and its insanity wouldn't be as hard as she thought.

-(!)-

From Skwisgaar, Murderface, and Nathan Alana received no further information. Murderface was in no mood to cooperate. Skwisgaar could barely answer any questions, as his gaze and his attention were directed solely to her breasts. Nathan only grunted and growled at her when she voiced any questions. Led by a surly Klokateer, Alana toured the length of Mordhaus, inspecting the dining room, the game room, and the kitchen, where she met the horrifically-mutilated Chef Jean-Pierre. After asking him some questions that received no actual attention, Alana wandered up to the fifth floor in search of Pickles's room. Ofdensen had included a basic floor plan of Mordhaus, with all the bedrooms and staircases highlighted. When she became lost, her Klokateer guard (#2109226, she later discovered) helped her locate Pickles's room. He seemed to have the place memorized. Alana envied him.

Pickles answered immediately when Alana rapped on his door. It only took the woman a second to realize how drunk he was. He reeked of vodka. His nose was bright red. He glared out at her from behind a filmy haze of alcohol. "Whaddya want?"

"I wanted to talk, Mister Pickles."

"Ya c'n call m'Lee."

Alana's heart sank. He sounded barely coherent. How could he answer questions? She kept her voice neutral as she answered, "Very well, Lee. May I come in?"

"C'mon in. I gadda bottle o'Evercl'r . . . ."

"I don't drink on the job, Lee." Alana nodded to the Klokateer. He folded his hands and stood against the wall. Alana entered Pickles's room.

The room was large, low-ceilinged, and smelled strongly of old cigarettes and beer. It was a low, pleasant smell. Despite the drummer's wealth, his room seemed somewhat shabby. The bedposts were scarred with a decade's worth of cigarette burns and knife slashes. In one corner was a tub of drumsticks and an old guitar from his Snakes N' Barrels days. There was also an SnB poster on the wall by the window. Bottles littered the floor, some half-full.

Pickles threw himself down on the bed. "Whaddya want, L'lana?"

"Just to ask some questions, Lee." Alana stood against the wall and opened her notebook.

"Hmm." Pickles closed his eyes. "Like what?" "I wanted to know if you saw anything before the events of Friday."

"Saw plenty'a things b'fore Friday," answered the drummer. "Saw LA b'fore Friday."

Alana rolled her eyes. "I meant at the mall. On that Friday. Before the shot."

Pickles grinned. "Yeah, I knew dat." His voice was slurred, but the rationality behind his statements seemed unchanged. "Nah, I din see nuthin'. Skwisgaah n' Toki were bitchin' . . . an' . . . Nat'an was smacking Murderface. My mam was fussin' . . . then Skwisgaah's milkshake blew up."

"All right." Alana wrote down his answer. "Now, then-"

"No."

Alana looked up. Pickles still lay on the bed, arms behind his head, feet crossed. His face was serene. He seemed perfectly content to lie there forever. She frowned, confused. "No?"

"C'mere." He beckoned to her. She crossed the room and stood by his bed. He opened his bloodshot emerald eyes and smiled. "I get tah ask a question first. Den you."

Alana sighed. "Lee . . . ."

"Eh, fuck yew. Siddown." He patted the bed. She perched on the edge of the mattress, staring down into the pale, drawn face of a boy she'd once known. How often had she done this before? Sat on the floor by an old futon, watching over her drunken friend? A thousand times in eighteen months?

"What questions?"

"I wanted t'know . . . T'know if ya ever missed me." He studied her face with an intensity that unnerved her. For a second her face changed. He saw the tears bloom in her eyes, but when she blinked they were gone. The pained expression faded back into a mask of indifference. He hesitated. "Lana?"

"I missed you for awhile," the woman answered. She twisted the cap of her pen as she spoke, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. "Then I met Regina, and I was too busy to be missing anyone."

"Oh." Was that regret in his eyes? Alana wasn't sure. Pickles cleared his throat. "So uh, do ya still see . . . Lelly?'

Alana laughed. "Oh God. Yes, actually, I do. He'll be here tomorrow."

Pickles looked horrorstruck. "Lana!" he cried. "Noo!"

"Yep!"

"Noooo!" The drummer threw his arms across his face. "Noo, nat the crazy Russian! Fuuu-"

"He's my second in command!" Alana exclaimed over his dramatic fit, starting to giggle. Oh, she remembered Lee's and Leland's history, all right. "And he's French, you dipshit!"

"Even worse!" Pickles sat up abruptly. "I'mma kill ya! Ya bringin' dat crazy fuckin Frenchman in here . . ." Alana laughed even harder. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Pickles began to laugh himself despite his roiling stomach. "Nah, fuck yew, fuck yew, fuck-"

Pickles burped, shuddered, and vomited directly into Alana's lap.

The woman jumped up and away. Her book and her folder, miraculously unmarked, slid to the floor. She kicked them; they slid across the floor to a safer, cleaner spot. There was a second's silence where Alana slowly looked down at herself, then up at her client. The drummer slowly raised his hands. "Lana, I'm sarry . . . ."

Alana burst into gales of laughter. There were chunks of half-digested food on her jacket and skirt, and blood- and alcohol-laced bile dripping from the hems, but somehow she managed to laugh anyway. "Lee, it's been awhile since that has happened to me. I can almost say I'd missed it. Good to see you again, redhead." And with that, she picked up her belongings and left the room.

Klokateer #2109226 snapped to attention the moment Alana closed Pickles's door. "Miss, what happened?"

"Mister Pickles is a little tipsy," she said, beginning to giggle again. "You might want to let someone from the janitorial staff know."

Klokateer #2109226 took her by the elbow. "Miss Ryland," he said calmly, "we can get your clothes cleaned downstairs. If you'll just follow me . . . ."

The Gear took a blanket from a linen closet concealed nearby and wrapped her in it, hiding the worst of the stains. Then he brought her to the basement laundry room, where eighteen industrial-size washers and dryers roared under relentless fluorescent lights. He called for the head of Laundry Services to take Alana's outer clothes. When Alana told the woman (Klokateer #8803) that her luggage was several floors away, she received a pair of Toki's shorts and Nathan Explosion's t-shirt. _Oh my God, Regina would have a fit. _The thought made her grin.

Barefoot, Alana examined the room in the minutes it took for her clothes to be washed and dried. No windows meant no exits besides the service elevator and the two doors on either side of the long room. The walls were solid white-painted cinderblock, the floor solid concrete. Air vents could always be a problem, but Alana guessed there were covers on all the grates. She made a note to check them out. Klokateer #8803 came back with her clothes, wished her luck, and vanished into the depths of the steam-filled room.

The rest of the day went surprisingly quick. The only other event of any significance was a brief but hair-raising encounter with a hungry yard-wolf. Thankfully, #2109226 chased the wolf away before it had a chance to do more than nibble on the woman's skirt. Too soon, Jean-Pierre called everyone into the dining room for dinner. Alana declined a meal with Dethklok, preferring to grab something from the kitchen. She was too tired for much more than a simple sandwich anyway. Walking around Mordhaus, inspecting windows and fences, had worn her out. She ate on the way back up to her room. She could hear the sounds of heavy-metal music from floors below. Yawning, she changed into a t-shirt and jeans and sat on her bed.

_Had _she missed Pickles? Definitely in the first few months. The memories she had with Pkckles were vague to her mind now. Most of them involved him drunk, puking everywhere. Once, she remembered, he'd puked on the cat. Fuck, that had been nasty. But since then she hadn't dealt with something like that. It was a welcome change. But between drunken antics there had been good memories, and Alana hadn't had many of those in sixteen years either. She hadn't dated at all; her visits with friends and family soon became few and far in between. It had been two years since she'd seen her brother Seth. Alana laughed to herself, thinking of Pickles's horrified expression when she first mentioned Seth. Their siblings shared a name, but her Seth was gentle and kind. Pickles's brother seemed rather like a bastard. But, Alana reminded herself, if it hadn't been for that bastard, she probably would never have met the boy she had dubbed "Lee" at first sight.

Alana lay down. _Good day_, she thought sleepily. _Must remind Regina to keep her hands to herself tomorrow . . . . _

And with that, Alana Ryland was fast asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>See that button down there? Press it. Leave a critique. I like them. ^_^<strong>


	4. Of Tents and New Arrivals

**Chapter 4: The First Day**

Skwisgaar Swigelf awoke the next day around noon to the sounds of barking, shouting, and a cacophonous crash. He jumped to his feet, upsetting the plump blonde whose head rested on his bare stomach. Naked, he bounded to the window and threw open the curtains. "Whats the fucks?"

"They're building or something," said the blonde sleepily, beginning to dress. "Anyway, thanks, Swkisgaar, see you sometime." She seemed very at ease. She shrugged into her pale pink button-up top and tied her sneaker laces. Skwisgaar eyed the way her jeans clung to her curves and bared his teeth in a lupine grin. Such a voluptuous young lady. "Had a great time."

"Ja, thanks ya," muttered the Swede, also dressing. He slipped on his clothes, ignored his hair, and all but fled from his bedroom. All that sex had worked up quite the appetite, and the dining room afforded a good view of the grounds. Perfect to see whatever the hell was going on.

In the dining room he found Murderface and Toki, the latter happily polishing off a stack of pancakes doused in syrup. "Da fucks is goingks ons?" he demanded. One twitching hand snuck out and snatched a bottle of pre-breakfast beer from the table. "What ams dats bangings?"

"Look for yerself," grunted Murderface, waving a scarred arm at the closest window. He seemed even more surly than usual. He stabbed his fried egg as though the innocent morsel had dared insult his weight. "Bitches woke me up at the crack of noon." He paused and eyed the Swede. "What's the matter, Sleeping Beauty? Didn't have time to do yer hair?"

"Ja Skwisgaar!" Toki piped up. Typical Toki, always tagging along. "Dids de ladies nots have times for de brushings and de makes-up?"

"Fucks off, Moidaface. And fucks off, little dildos." Skwisgaar peered out the window. Outside, a crowd of people all dressed in black uniforms were setting up long white tents on the dead, gray lawn. Two tents were already assembled. The people shouted orders to one another as they worked. The canvas tents had bright blue paint splattered on them, and a white-and-blue flag on top that flapped serenely in the breeze. They were an odd contrast to the black-and-red color scheme of the surrounding Mordhaus.

"Is dats the scur-ties peoples?"

"Yes it is." Charles Ofdensen entered the room, immaculate in his customary suit. "Silverleaf's six months begin today."

Skwisgaar scoffed. "Fuckings scur-ties."

Charles coughed politely. "Uh, Skwisgaar? You do remember you have a photo shoot with Gibson today, correct?"

"Ja . . . .?"

"Well, shouldn't you . . . At least comb your hair . . . .?"

"Fucks off!" snapped Skwisgaar. He combed through his hair with his fingertips. Every so often his fingers found a knot. He winced in pain. "I didn't's does it because I ams ku-ri-us abouts de yellings and whatsever ams wakings me up!"

"Well, Skwisgaar, now that you know-"

"LYDA!"

Murderface leaped from his chair. His egg, perhaps seeking freedom, plopped to the floor. His vivid swearing made Toki cover his ears and roll his eyes. Skwisgaar stared out the window, fascinated. All the Silverleaf people stood at attention, chests puffed out, arms pressed to their sides, heads held high. It had been their combined voice that startled Murderface so. The men and women stood, silently waiting.

A short, thickset woman strode across the lawn, dressed as the others in a long-sleeve black shirt, and close-fitting black pants tucked into tall black boots. It was the pretty lady, Ryland. She bellowed something and snapped off a salute. Silverleaf silently assembled into four blocks. Appearing satisfied, Alana began to speak.

Skwisgaar prided himself in pretending to be indifferent to the goings-on in Mordhaus, but he loved gossip in every form, from telltale hickeys on Nathan's throat to burn marks on Pickles's new shirt. He wondered fervently what Alana was saying to them, and why she used the Swedish word for _listen_. These newcomers in Mordhaus would certainly prove interesting. At least they'd be worth something to gossip about. Maybe he could make up some rumors and turn them against one another. He grinned. All that drama was perfect for desperate revenge sex.

-(!)-

"_Lyda_!"

"_LYDA_!"

Standing on this field at noon, sun glowing down on the white tents and black uniforms of her people, Alana Ryland felt a rush of pride. This was the best day of her life. Her people stood silent, professional, silver badges gleaming on their chests. They were perfect. This was what she had worked for the last ten years. This beautiful sight made everything worth it. Alana could feel the excitement crackling in the air like a low electrical current. They were impatient to get started. This was an excellent opportunity for them. They knew the money involved, the fame just around the corner.

Alana stood before the three groups. They stared at her, stiff and unmoving like blocks of stone. Alana rubbed her hands together. "All righty, then. Norris, Gamble, Vega. C'mere." She beckoned with one hand. The three company heads stepped forward in sync. They shifted nervously when Alana's eye fell on them; when she grinned, they flinched.

Alana eyed the white shoulder belts that marked them as company heads. They made a fantastic accessory. From her pocket she withdrew a coin, a Pickles Nickel to be exact. "Heads means DNA duty, tails means Klokateer training." Gamble groaned and rolled her eyes. Quick as a snake, the second in command reached out and slapped her smartly on the back of the head. She whipped around, meeting his calm sapphire eyes. "Stoppit, Leland!" she whined.

Leland Fleur looked down his long nose at the short woman. He had no pity for her. "Then do what you are told, Miss Gamble."

"Can we get this over with?" drawled Lucian Vega, interrupting the side conversation. He was a tall Italian native with short-cropped black hair, a fantastic sniper with a short attention span. He crossed his arms and lounged in place. "We'd all like to get started training the Klokateers."

"Good job for making my decision. Company Two, you're gonna swab spit today." The majority of Company Two broke attention and groaned loudly. Vega pinched the bridge of his nose, called for his company, and wandered away into the tents to set up the stations. This left Companies One and Four. Alana's grin was shark like. "Norris!" she exclaimed. The man started and looked over at her, his expression wary. "Heads or tails?"

"Uhh . . . ." Randy Norris scratched his thicket of bright red hair. "Uh, tails?" Alana flipped. The coin landed heads-up on her wrist. Norris's shoulders slumped. "Aww . . . ."

"Yep, DNA for you!" said Alana gaily, tucking her coin into her pocket. "Go along now, Company Four!" Grumbling, Company Four strode off behind their leader. Alana paused, reconsidered, and called, "Nah, I think Vega's people got it covered. You guys go take care of some Klokateers."

Cheers from Company Four. Alana turned to watch them turn and race for the field, where a makeshift training ground had been set up.

Leland Fleur adjusted his white beret and put a hand on his employer's shoulder. She turned. Leland chose to stay silent about the tears welling in her eyes. He knew that she was proud of this achievement. Alana Ryland saw only goals, not chances for money or fame. She was a unique individual; probably the only person Leland knew in this business who wasn't entirely concerned with money. Her partner Regina liked being acknowledged for her heroism. Alana lived for the behind-the-scenes action, the coordination, the long hours spent poring over videotapes and inspecting mail. Leland loved her a little for that. She wasn't a glory-hog, and her heart was that of a warrior's.

"You are too good to them, my dear girl," he said, assuming a neutral expression.

Leland's stiff, formal manner was awkwardly adorable. Poor Leland, he'd been born in the wrong century. He should have been a French aristocrat, all dignified and angry and proper. The thought of Leland in a powdered wig gave Alana the giggles. She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "You're silly, Leland."

Leland sniffed. "Where do you want me, Captain?"

"Oh, I suppose you could go watch over Company Two for awhile, make sure they're set up. I think you'll have to drive the truck later today." Charles Ofdensen had allowed them the use of a moving truck with shelves for their boxes of supplies and swabs. "Take them to the lab. Until then, watch Vega. It won't be long before he's off doing something."

Leland sketched a salute and strutted off, his chest puffed out, his beret a rooster's comb on his head. Alana couldn't hold it in. She burst into laughter. Tears streamed down her face. It wasn't funny really. Leland was a dear, and undoubtedly a little fond of her. Perhaps Mordhaus put something in their water to make everybody silly. _I'll spend a fortune on water bottles if that's the truth_, Alana mused, and then she was off again, clutching her aching sides.

Hands touched her back. She looked around into the semi-sober and hopeful face of Pickles the Drummer. He squeezed her shoulder. "Calm down," he ordered. Her knees buckled; Pickles wrapped an arm around her waist, keeping her upright. It was only when her heart began beating alarmingly hard in her chest that Alana forced herself to stop laughing. She took a handkerchief from one pocket and mopped her damp face with it, stray chuckles escaping her lips like runaway birds.

"Whew," she sighed, a hand over her heart. "It's not funny, I know, but he just looked like a peacock . . . ."

"Leland," grunted Pickles, eyeing the man's receding back with distaste. "What a bitch."

"You said that about me, too," said Alana, smirking. Then her smile turned into a grimace; a stab of pain zipped lightning-quick through her chest. She winced and rubbed the muscles absently.

"Ya okay dood?" Pickles's voice was thick with concern.

"Fine," said Alana loftily, pulling away from him. "I'm going to go yell at Vega."

"Uh, Lana?"

Alana turned to look at him. "Yes?"

Pickles hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak, paused, and said, "Is his sister still hawt?"

Alana suppressed a fresh wave of giggles. "Yes, Lee. Helene is still very lovely. Josette turned out to be quite a looker too."

Pickles grinned. "Thanks ya. Now go do yer job, ya bitch."

Smiling, Alana did as she was told.

-(!)-

"Excuse me, are you Leland Fleur?" The tall blonde turned to the sound of the voice. The speaker was a small, female Klokateer with a tablet in her hands. He nodded stiffly and the woman bowed. "Begging your pardon sir, but, Mister Ofdensen asked me to give this to you." She handed over the tablet. "It's the names and pictures of all us Klokateers, sir."

"Thank you, Miss," said Leland, taking the tablet and switching it on. The Klokateer waited expectantly to answer any questions the man had. Leland watched, fascinated, as the screen flickered and came to life. Onscreen was a picture of a Klokateer with and without her hood, and a small bio. Her name was Viktoriya Belyakov. Leland touched the little arrow in the bottom right corner and the screen slid sideways. Another bio popped up. He glanced at the Klokateer and pointed at the square button in the bottom-middle of the screen. "What's this one for?"

"That's to access the name database. It gives you all the names to select, rather than flipping through them individually. They can be organized by Gear number or by last name. Mister Ofdensen uses it all the time so he knows whose family to threaten when somebody screws up."

"Ah." Leland pressed the button. Names and numbers filled the screen. His eyes widened. Names 1-399 of . . . HOW MANY? He felt himself growing faint. _Oh my God, Alana is not going to like this._

Leland chose not to mention the total Klokateer roster to Alana until Regina came in the morning. He could slip a tranquilizer into Alana's morning cup of coffee. The drugs were for Ofdensen's sake; if Alana encountered the truth of this vast task in her normal state, things would be destroyed. Probably several dozen Ikea lamps.

-(!)-

As the day wore on into evening, the members of Dethklok noted various changes within their home. For one, there seemed to be no Klokateers loitering in the halls. It soon became apparent that they were all involved in whatever was going on inside those tents. A long, thick line of servants snaked its way across the grounds. They entered and left the tent at a steady pace and proceeded up the hill back to Mordhaus to continue their duties. Funny, though, they all lacked hoods.

William Murderface personally did not give a shit if the Klokateers ever came back, particularly the women. They always whined and complained when he groped them. Jesus Christ, that was their _job_, right? To do whatever he said? Yet whenever a complaint came up, Ofdensen always supported the women. Murderface supposed it was because Charles was a gay-robot virgin. After all, robots didn't understand the allure of titties.

The absence of Klokateers meant that there was no one to tell him not to do stupid shit. However, since Ofdensen's "no-leaving-Mordhaus" policy was still in effect, the most Murderface could do was stand on the lawn and curse at the Silverleaf people. They ignored him patiently. Bored out of his mind, Murderface sat on the lawn with a twelve-pack of beers and a bucket of rocks, occasionally pegging Klokateers. He had been expressly forbidden from harming any Silverleaf people; Ofdensen personally promised to cut out Murderface's liver if he did anything stupid. Normally Murderface would protest or threaten the CFO, but he was simply too tired to bother. The Silverleaf people had woken him up far too early to consider a fight.

It was drawing down dark when the sound of yelling and banging distracted Murderface from his target practice. He frowned, downed the rest of his beer, and stood up, weaving slightly. He stumbled toward the sound of conflict; down the hill through a curtain of burned, battered trees (victims of an unfortunate Skwisgaar-related fireworks accident) into out a large field where the grass stood up to his waist. The grass in the center of the field had been flattened to accommodate a large pit surrounded by people, all cheering and shouting. Murderface crossed the field, listening to their words and to the dry crunch of grass underneath his heavy boots. A light breeze ruffled his hair, making him curse. He hated wind. It fucked up his aim when skeet-shooting.

"The fucksch's goin on here?" he slurred, elbowing a woman away from the edge of the pit. "What'sch . . . ."

He stopped. Down below were half a dozen unmasked Klokateers fighting a single security guard. The bowl-shaped battlefield was already littered with unconscious and injured Gears. The young man tamped down dirt with his bare feet, constantly shifting positions, eyes hawk-like in his dark face. A short woman started toward him, but her posture was uncertain, her side entirely unguarded. Lightning-quick, the young man grabbed the Klokateer's arm and yanked her towards him, driving his knee into her belly and administering quick rabbit punches to her ears and shoulders. Then he let her lay down. Woofing for breath, the woman decided to play dead. This left five terrified-looking Gears left.

"Th' fuck isch thisch?" Murderface asked the woman he'd pushed aside. As he did so, he admired her very nice tits. See, Ofdensen could never appreciate this!

The girl beamed. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "Kyota's the best hand-to-hand fighter in Company Four!" she exclaimed. "He'll get these suckers whipped into shape!" Then she joined the crowd in a collective moan of sympathy when a fat Klokateer fell to the dirt, his nose bleeding. The four remaining Klokateers scattered. They scrambled up the steep sides of the bowl and through the grass back towards Mordhaus. There were roars of disapproval from the crowd.

Down below, Kyota beckoned and stamped his feet. His hair stood up in sweaty spikes, giving him an electrified look. "All righty, ya bastids!" he hollered. "Git yer asses down heah! Let's fight! Let's teach ya tah FIGHT!"

Murderface sat at the edge of the pit. His legs dangled over the side. His eyes were bright with amusement and interest. Kyota called down a fresh batch of terrified young Gears, and the imitation massacre began again. Murderface was impressed at the boy's skill. This could be entertaining. Beating the shit out of people was, after all, very brutal.

Murderface settled himself with a fresh beer to watch the festivities, greedy for excitement and bloodlust. Far off in the distance, the sun blazed lower in a bloody-red sky.

-(!)-

The dinner bell tolled deep inside Mordhaus.

Leland jumped out of his chair. His beret, already crooked to begin with, slipped sideways and landed on the floor. He swore in vigorous French. He glared at Jon-Pierre, the chef, who only shrugged his grossly-misshapen shoulders and wandered into the freezer rooms in search of cheese.

The cavernous kitchen was an incredible sight. Leland was envious of the state-of-the-art ovens and walk-in freezers. He only wished he had half of this stuff in his own house. He loved to cook. The kitchen was a far cry from the filthy pit he had anticipated. Pots and pans dangled from pristine racks. The floor was mirror-bright. Leland could admire his own appearance in it. Certainly, watching Alana cross the kitchen had been a high point in his day. Even her reflection on the floor was lovely.

_Oh, Alana. You beautiful bitch._

Leland refused to acknowledge how much he cared about his boss to the rest of the world. He was aware of Regina's silent conviction that he was gay, but despite this he would never admit that his affections were entirely for Alana. He felt she worked far too hard. Her success was immense, true, but . . . Oh, hell. In his own heart there was no point beating around the bush. Coming here was a bad idea. Especially with . . . _Lee _around. That Irish bastard was no good for Alana. He'd left her all alone in LA to join some shitty _glam band_. Leland had never liked Mister Lee, formerly Lee Ramsey_. _For God's sake, he'd picked the name when he was _stoned. _What kind of boy chose his fake name after smoking too many joints and watching too much TV?

"An idiot, that's who," Leland grumbled under his breath.

"Pardon, sir?" Jon-Pierre had come back. He was standing by the door, head cocked, a fresh bag of Cheez-Doodles in his mutilated hand. "Eez something wrong?"

"Nothing," muttered Leland. Jon-Pierre's stare was beyond creepy. He resisted the urge to shudder, tucked his beret into his satchel, and sauntered out of the kitchen.

On his way out he passed by a hooded Klokateer carrying a package. In fact, he clipped the taller man as he passed. Leland hissed in pain; the shock traveled up his shoulder and into his neck. _That _was a hard blow. Leland stopped in his tracks and turned around. The Klokateer didn't stop moving, though. He kept going down the hall toward one of the many staircases.

"Excuse me!" called Leland. "Sir! Hoods off, please!" The Klokateer didn't answer. Leland was instantly confused. Quick on the heels of his confusion was suspicion. He knew Alana's orders had been to force all Klokateers to remove their hoods for the time being. There hadn't been a single hooded Klokateer in sight for at least two hours. They all knew what was necessary for their paychecks.

"Sir! Please halt!"

The Klokateer broke into a run.

Leland dashed after him. His beret flew off his head. Wind rushed through the silky strands of his white-blonde hair, making it whip across his face, obscuring his vision. He cursed and pushed it impatiently away.

The unknown Klokateer had the advantage of size and distance. He beat Leland to the stairwell by a whole four seconds. Leland took one huge leap and landed on the third step, just behind the Klokateer. He stumbled, pitched forward, and fell. His wildly-waving arms caught the Klokateer's leg. The other man collapsed onto the stair and kicked back. His boot smashed into Leland's face. There was a snap. Dazed, his nose bleeding, Leland dug his nails into the Klokateer's ankle and twisted. The hooded man voiced a hoarse bellow. He reared up, twisting around to sit on the stair, and grabbed a handful of Leland's hair.

"_Aidez! Aidez! Alana_!" Leland pulled away from his foe. Somehow, he managed to stand upright on the bottom stair. It took a momentous effort to not scream when the hairs were torn from their roots. Oh God, he would have a bald patch for a long time to come. The Klokateer scrambled to his feet and kicked Leland square in the chest. Leland was not prepared for the blow. His breath exploded out of his lungs with a _pah! _sound. He flew back. His arms waved pointlessly in the air, seeking something, anything, to hold on to. But it was to no avail. His head pounded against the floor. Bright daggers of pain exploded in his head. Unable to move, Leland glared at his opponent. But the intensity in his glare faded fast. The lights were going out in Leland's head.

The Klokateer bellowed laughter. He took the stairs four at time, up and out of Leland's sight. The blonde man sighed, closed his eyes, and gave way to unconsciousness.

-(!)-

"So, uh, why are you . . . .?"

"Miss Lana, why-"

"Who the fuck makes ya think you can just call us all together like this?"

Alana stared down her crowd of disgruntled clients. Charles had called them all to assembly in a small living space on the third floor. It was rather plain compared to most of Mordhaus; obviously it was a room not often used. Toki and Pickles shared a small couch. Skwisgaar stood in the corner with his Gibson. Murderface was sprawled out on the floor with a beer and a knife. Nathan had chosen to stand in the center of the room and stare Alana down. His presence looming over her shoulder was unnerving.

Alana took a deep breath to compose herself, feeling five pairs of angry eyes on her, burning her with their icy fury. "I called you in here to discuss protection details, gentlemen," she said quietly.

"Fuck protection details," grumbled Murderface.

"We have recording to not do!" added Nathan.

Alana sighed. They were ganging up on her again, seeking to drive her nuts. She did not like that. Not at all. When she was angry, bad things tended to happen. But of course she couldn't lose her temper. That would spell doom for her company. Instead, she took another deep breath and continued with her speech. "Each of you will be assigned two Klokateers, cleared and identified, and a Silverleaf guard. These men and women will follow you for the duration of our six-month stay. I have created a long-term protection plan including shift changes for the next eight weeks, and I plan to implement it when Company Two arrives tomorrow." She handed each Dethklok band member a sheet of paper covered in writing in all different colors. "Not that you need to memorize it, I just felt you needed to be informed . . . ."

"Do you have a life?" demanded Murderface. He glared at the paper.

"Nope," Pickles answered. He calmly crumpled up his schedule and threw it. The ball soared across the room and bounced off Skwisgaar's head. The Swede blew up and began swearing vividly. Pickles grinned. "Ten points."

Alana rolled her eyes. "Gentlemen, I-"

"_Aidez! Aidez! Oh God, Alana, help me!_"

Alana stopped dead. That voice had issued from her walkie-talkie. She yanked it off her belt. That had been Leland's agonized voice. Just the sound of his distress was enough to get Alana's heart pumping. She thumbed the button. "Leland? Where are you? What's happening?"

"Stairs . . . ." A cough. Leland wheezed for breath. "Someone coming!"

Alana dropped the walkie-talkie. They were coming for Dethklok, of course. Someone had gotten in already. Chills racked her. She drew her gun. "Get down on the floor," she ordered, and crossed the room to lock the door. It was a solid wood door, good but not perfect. It wouldn't hold up under many heavy blows. She only prayed it would be enough until help arrived. She snatched up her walkie-talkie and pressed the bright blue button on the front. The emergency call-all button. "Silverleaf Open, emergency situation. Floor 2. Locator on. Possibly facing armed resistance heading our way. Man down, Fleur, Channel 1C, locator on, send aid." A bang cut her off. The door shook in its frame. Toki shouted with surprise and fell off the couch. Alana pressed a hand to the top of his head, forcing him down on the floor. Her walkie-talkie was still in her hand. "God dammit, Silverleaf, hurry up! HURRY!"

Another bang, louder than the first. Alana crouched. The couch opposite Toki's and Pickles's blocked her view of the door, but it might just be enough to protect them. She stood between the door and the couch, assessing the situation. Murderface was already on the floor. In fact, Toki had landed directly on top of him. Murderface, cursing, crawled out from under the Norwegian. He tried to stand. "Get down!" Alana yelled at him.

Murderface, stunningly, obeyed without complaint. Skwisgaar crawled around the couch and lay next to Toki, Gibson clutched to his chest. Pickles slid off the couch to join the guitarists. Alana turned to Nathan. "Get down!" she ordered. A third bang shook the whole room. "Get down, Nathan!" "Why?"

BANG! BANG! BANG! Alana waited. Her heart pulsed in her chest. Silence fell. She could hear nothing but the terrified breathing of four men. Nathan remained still and silent. He crossed his arms. Alana recognized the stiffness in the set of his jaw. Mister Explosion was a very stubborn man.

**BANG!**

Alana couldn't wait. She ran toward Nathan as fast as she could, took a flying leap, and pushed off the back of the couch with both feet. The momentum carried her over the couch and onto Nathan, but he still did not move. Sonofabitch was damn strong. She hung from Nathan's torso like a child on jungle-gym; she clung to his shoulders with both hands, feet planted in his soft stomach. The collision hurt him, but not enough to make him sit. In his face Alana saw only confusion, but triumph gleamed in his eyes. He delighted in being obdurate. Behind them, the door split down the middle from the force of . . . A battering ram?

"DOWN!" Alana bellowed in his ear. When that still didn't move him, she did the only thing she could. Alana lifted one foot from his stomach and kicked him in the groin.

Immediately, the look of triumph and anger in Nathan's eyes turned to pain and surprise. His arms wrapped around her of their accord. He crushed her to his chest convulsively, driving all the breath from her body. His knees relaxed; his body collapsed. It only took an instant for him to fall, but to Alana it seemed like forever. She stared directly into his eyes as they fell, locked in a weird embrace. She could hear, dimly, the roar of machine-gun fire behind her. Then, they hit the carpet. The ground shook underneath Nathan's bulk.

Alana crawled off the moaning singer. The gun stopped firing; jammed or empty, Alana did not know. She popped up from behind the couch like a duck in a shooting gallery and whipped out her own gun. She shot four times at two hooded Klokateers. The first bullet missed entirely. The second caught the shorter Klokateer, who carried the battering ram and a Ruger, in the chest. The other two bullets entered his stomach and passed through. He coughed, choked, and fell down dead. Alana shot again, but missed the remaining enemy. He adjusted his gun and laughed at her, preparing to fire.

Alana, desperate, threw her gun at him. It bounced off his chest and skittered across the room. The Klokateer, startled, looked down for a second. That was long enough for Leland Fleur to put a bullet in his forehead. He collapsed onto his gun, blood spraying from the hole in his skull.

Alana voiced a cry of relief and ran for the door. She threw herself at her friend. "Leland!"

Pickles sat up when he heard that name. "We're alive?" he asked loudly. Alana ignored him.

Silverleaf guards flooded into the room around the embracing couple, shouting. Half a dozen of them helped Dethklok off the floor, and another six lifted the bellowing Nathan onto the couch. "Holy fuck! My fucking balls! My fucking balls! I'm gonna fucking kill you! I'm gonna fucking KILL YOU BITCH!" His hoarse roars hurt Alana's ears. She buried her head in Leland's shoulder. She could hear his heavy breathing, and smelled a combination of sweat and blood on his shirt. He was hurt badly.

"You okay?" she asked, voice muffled by his clothes.

"Alive," Leland wheezed. He ruffled her hair, a very un-Lelandish thing to do. "You?"

"Everybody's okay." She looked down at the bodies on the floor, suddenly aware she stood in a puddle of blood and brain. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her. "I want to know who these bastards are. Immediately. Then I want them checked out. I want to know everything about them from their births to the second we put bullets in em."

"That can be arranged."

Alana smiled at him. "But first, we're gonna patch you up." Leland chuckled and winced. Raising her voice, she called, "Lee! A little help here?"

Leland's eyes widened, then narrowed. "You wouldn't."

Pickles ambled over, hands in his pockets. Leland rolled his eyes and muttered obscenities in French. Pickles smiled crookedly at Alana. "Yeah? C'n I help ya?"

"Can you help me take Mister Fleur to the hospital wing, please?"

Pickles eyed Leland. "Yeah, sure I c'n."

Alana bellowed, "SILVERLEAF! FOLLOW!" Ten guards abandoned their attempts to secure the room and ran for the door. They stood at attention before their boss.

Oblivious to Leland's protests, Pickles slipped his shoulder under Leland's arm and hoisted half his body. Alana took his other arm. They half-dragged the semiconscious man towards the stairway, surrounded by their guard.

Unsurprisingly, Ofdensen met them in the infirmary. His face was stark white, and a pen jutted from between his clenched teeth. He had already been informed of the attack. "What the hell happened?" he bellowed in Alana's face the moment they stepped through the doors.

"Do not speak to her in that manner, sir!" Leland cried, his voice rasping with pain and effort. His slightly unfocused glare was furious. "It is not-"

"Leland shut the fuck up," Alana commanded. Leland fell silent. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Mister Ofdensen, I don't know. In all honesty, I don't know. We really dodged a bullet. Actually, several dozen bullets. But I promise you. They will never get that close again."

Ofdensen scowled. "It had better not. This is my bread and butter you're fucking with, Miss Ryland, and if this happens again, you're all fired."

"Sir, I must protest!" Leland straightened with an effort. "Sir! Do not-"

"Leland, shut up!" Alana looked at Ofdensen. "Mister Ofdensen, I promise, I will not allow this to happen again. When Regina comes in the morning, we'll have everything sealed up tight. I will not fail you." Leland sagged against her. Impatiently, she hoisted the young man to his feet. "Mister Ofdensen, we have so much to do, still . . . ."

"Lana . . ." Pickles mumbled.

"Lee! Shush!"

"Lana! Look!"

Alana turned. Leland had fainted. No wonder he was so heavy. "Mister Ofdensen," she said, lifting the sagging blonde, "I promise this will not happen again. Now can I help my friend please?"

Ofdensen grudgingly allowed them the use of a bed. Together they lifted Leland into a bed and summoned a doctor. Alana settled into a chair while the Doctor-Gear worked, her eyes fixed unmoving on his pale, haggard face. She wiped a spot of blood from his cheek.

"Lana?" Pickles asked, turning to leave. "Ya comin?"

"No, Lee, I'll stay here with Leland."

Pickles wrinkled his nose. "Eh. L'land. C'mon. Let's go." He twitched his fingers, beckoning her toward the door.

"No, Lee." Alana never took her eyes off Leland's bruised face. "I'm staying here."

Pickles swallowed a lump of disappointment. "Kay." He wandered out of the hospital wing, hands in his pockets, wondering if the ache in his chest was purely from muscle strain. Then he brushed the idea off. Of course it was. Leland was fat, after all.

Whistling a tune, Pickles the Drummer went to find some booze.

And thus the first day at Mordhaus came to a close.

* * *

><p><strong>Hehe, I like reviews! (hint hint)<strong>


	5. A Chat

**This chapter took a long time. Kaiiba was moving, I was finishing finals, and I JUST got the last bit done. Chapter 6 and 7 will be out soon; they're almost written.  
>-The Other Beta<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: A Chat<strong>

Life resumed a normal schedule at Mordhaus for the members of Dethklok following the second attempt on their lives, but even when drunk they noticed a marked difference in their staff. By day, hoodless Klokateers lined up beside the white Silverleaf tents and meandered to the field for scheduled classes. Alana, with the grudging help of Viktoriya Belyakov and her five Chosen, created custom schedules for batches of Gear. By night, Silverleaf people prowled the halls in groups. Regina Maine arrived the second day and pitched in with these efforts. She could commonly be found skulking outside Nathan's room in the dead of night. Fifth Company arrived the second day and immediately set to the task of spit-swabbing. Fourth Company was moved to researching Decreux and his clients. They welcomed the respite from the training fields and never once complained about eyestrain. Alana was confident that now, she had everything under control.

It was around this time that Leland, patched up and back on his feet, discovered the corpses in the basement, fouling a natural pool that apparently led under Mordhaus to a local lake. Alana decided that Company Three needed to come immediately. Those corpses needed to be identified and removed. They were metal, as Murderface insisted, but Ofdensen agreed to the removal.

Meanwhile, the computers in Mordhaus roared, comparing samples of DNA to the database. Five non-matches were discovered within four hundred employees. These men were located and handed over to Charles Ofdensen, for some discreet questioning.

The members of Dethklok all reacted differently to the intrusion. Nathan Explosion seemed determined to ignore them as much as possible, especially the ever-hopeful Regina. But at least once his a day his temper wore thin and he roared insults at someone. They were spared from the physical aspect of his rage, which he took out on a series of innocent watches and furniture. Half of Fourth Company took to calling him "The Ape." Behind his back, of course. None of them had a death wish.

Skwisgaar enjoyed himself hugely. The perfect type of sex was sex with strangers. Against Alana's orders, more than one of her women met up with the lead guitarist for a midnight rendezvous. Alana caught one of them in Skwisgaar's room and fired her on the spot. Her place was temporarily taken by Regina, who promised to behave herself. This promise Alana received with secret apprehension.

Pickles followed Leland around everywhere when Alana was not around. He took this very calmly, biting back acerbic retorts to Pickles's stupid questions. Pickles took great pleasure in harassing the poor man, constantly telling him that his nose was now crooked. Vain and miserable, Leland begged Alana to please take Pickles off his hands. The woman agreed, laughing at Leland's misfortune. From then on Pickles followed her like a doleful and obedient puppy.

On the fourth day, the day before Company Three arrived, Alana received the news about the total number of Klokateers. Leland broke it to her and Regina as gently as possible over a small breakfast, urging them to drink a little more coffee the entire time he spoke. Regina merely slammed her head down on the breakfast table and moaned. Alana stood up calmly and left the kitchen. When she did not return, Leland chased her down. Sure enough, when he finally found her, she was standing in front of Ofdensen's office. She knocked and entered when bidden, and shut the door in Leland's face. He offered a silent prayer to any gods listening that Alana wouldn't lose her temper.

Ofdensen looked up from a stack of reports, his face weary and grimly amused. "Those five men all admitted to sneaking in," he said, with a crooked smile for Alana. "They were going to, ah, ask for autographs. They are more obsessed than most."

"Good for them," grumbled Alana, settling into a chair.

Ofdensen's smile faded. He regarded her seriously. "Something wrong?"

"Yes, sir, I believe there is." She frowned at him. "When you informed me that your staff roster is prodigious, you failed to mention that it's impossibly huge."

"There are several thousand Klokateers in residence here, and the surrounding countryside," answered Ofdensen. "There are ten thousand more all around the world, as support staff. They will be flying here for their tests and then carefully managed after Silverleaf leaves."

"There are 160,000 Klokateers," said Alana, fuming. She stood up, every muscle rigid. "We have to run them _all._"

"That's the idea," agreed Ofdensen. "At least we have a DNA database."

"DNA tests for 160,000 people is going to take months," snapped Alana. She slammed a fist down on Ofdensen's desk. The action did not change his serene expression. "We're testing them at the rate of 250 per hour. One quick swab then out the door. We're lining them up by the thousands but that's going to take forever. Some of your work isn't going to get done in time. We took Level 1 first."

Ofdensen grimaced. Alana smiled inwardly at the rare expression of emotion despite her frustration. Maybe he wasn't such a robot. "And you have . . . ."

"Twenty people. Fifteen to take swabs and five to load them into a box. Box holds five hundred samples. It takes an average of two hours to finish one box."

"And your research of Claude Decreux and his clientele?"

"I called in Third Company. They just got off a long assignment, taking care of some Italian diplomat. They'll be annoyed that I cut their vacation week but . . . I'm making this job my top priority. _Our _top priority."

Ofdensen's lips twitched into a small smile. "We are grateful for your dedication, Miss Ryland, and I am sure Pickles is particularly grateful."

A scowl creased Alana's previously emotionless face. "Lee is an old friend, Mister Ofdensen," she informed him coldly. "I am entirely about business here. My previous friendship with him will not interfere with my professional relationship with this band and its employees."

"I never said it would," said Ofdensen calmly, not intimidated or annoyed by her strictly subdued fury. "I am not here to remind you that your job is to upgrade our security. I am more than sure you know exactly what you're here for. I never doubted your intelligence. I think you know your place."

"Then what is your purpose, Mister Ofdensen?"

"To remind you that you're human, and that my client is your friend."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you." Deadly, dangerous calm.

"You will be an asset to this band. Already your presence here has improved . . . Ah, Lee's . . . mood. Your security seems to have put the others at ease. Though they may grumble, I have a feeling they are ah, nervous about a potential enemy greater than even Claude Decreux. We get death threats daily, but these threats are not carried out. We haven't died yet. Friday was too close. Dethklok is happy to have you here. Perhaps happy enough to continue with their album. In fact, just this morning, they completed a track that Nathan approved of."

Alana's eyes gleamed. "I understand, Mister Ofdensen. Keep cheering up Pickles, keep him off the sauce, and complete some hits. Sounds like something I can do."

"Thank you, Miss Ryland," said Ofdensen, offering his hand.

Alana shook and leaned on his desk. "Mister Ofdensen, I have 100 employees. Five companies. Four of them are already here, and Third Company is coming soon. Twenty are swabbing spit; twenty are researching leads on Decreux's clients, and forty are teaching your Klokateers, new and old fish alike, how to shoot and run and defend. Your Klokateer training is extremely flawed. Some can only follow orders to the letter. They don't know how to think for themselves, and while that can be useful, I've learned that, in certain situations, you need your soldiers to improvise.

"While they're all working at their jobs, Third Company is going to be _cleaning. _The corpses . . . Metal but not sanitary. Each corpse has to be tested, cleared, and crossed off your employee roster. It will save you a bundle. Deceased employees will be cremated or given back to their families. I'll give Mister Murderface the organs and such. He can have his pick of whatever's left. He seems to have a love for spleens. It might just make him warm up to us, and stop him from throwing rocks and knives at my female employees."

"I see."

"But that is not my point," Alana continued. "My point is _my _role. Normally, I would be out on the field, screaming at your servants to shoot better, fight harder. Normally I would be— Pardon my vulgarity— kicking their asses in a boxing match or a hand-to-hand freestyle fight. I'd pit myself against two or three clueless Klokateers in a ring, and considering their lack of prowess I'd probably win. But I am not often involved in direct combat anymore. I . . . I have my problems."

"I understand, Miss Ryland."

The woman's smile contained no mirth. "It does not prevent me, however, from staying with your band members. I am here to protect, and that is what I will do. I would die for Dethklok. Not just for Lee, but for everyone. Including you, Mister Ofdensen. You are surely as much a part of Dethklok as Mister Murderface, or Mister Explosion, or Mister Skwigelf."

Ofdensen smiled politely. "Thank you."

"I am here for this band. My people are laying their lives down for me, and in turn for you. We have five months and twenty-eight days. We will find out who Claude Decreux sold that gun to. We will find out who's trying to kill you all. I promise you this. Silverleaf Security will provide."

"I believe you, Miss Ryland," said Ofdensen. He was still so calm, so detached.

"I will protect you all, or die trying."

"I thank you, Miss Ryland," said Ofdensen. When she left, Ofdensen jotted down a memo to check the air conditioning in Mordhaus. Alana's exit had created enough of a draft to chill him to the bone.

At least, he hoped it was merely the closing of the door, and not the grim finality in Alana's departing words, that had sent shivers up and down his spine.

-(!)-

_**Dear Mister Fleur:**_

_** In response to your letter, Claude Decreux left Tulsa one year ago. He did not have any business with DethRifle creators DangerCorp. However, the military enclosure to the north of Tulsa (International Security, part of the Central Intelligence Agency) does have a security pass for his car, a 2000 Honda Civic. There are no records of any Decreux living within Tulsa city limits within the past twenty years. His former address is, in actuality, an empty lot. No one in Tulsa remembers him doing anything unusual. I'm sorry I can't be of more help, I am not at liberty to discuss these things far beyond what I have already given you.**_

_** Apologies,**_

_** Carson Dancen, Chief of Tulsa Police**_

-(!)-

_**Mr. FLEUR:**_

_** Your request for information about Dethklok Classic Custom Brutal Explosioney Sniper Rifle DR1440 (DETHRIFLE) is denied.  
><strong>__**Your request for information about Decreux, Claude is denied.  
><strong>__**Your request for information about Martin, Allen is denied.**_

_**International Security, Tulsa**_

Taped to this letter was a handwritten note. _How the hell did you find out about Allen Martin?_

Leland resisted the desire to write back, _Because I'm one intelligent bastard._

-(!)-

Allen Martin had been easy to locate. He and Decreux had gone to school together. Leland found him by hacking Decreux's Facebook, for the love of God. How he hated Facebook. He took advantage of Klokateer #38622, a computer hacker wanted by the FBI. Charles Ofdensen had hired him for this type of situation. #38622 stole Claude's personal information effortlessly, but his actions did have the side-effect of temporarily crashing Facebook and Google. When Leland confronted him, #38622 shrugged and said, "We can blame it on Anonymous. It's what we always do."

Leland had no doubt that Martin was, in some way, responsible for the shipment of DethRifles. Ofdensen had Martin "relocated" to the dungeons of Mordhaus, and he remained there for nearly a week before finally admitting to leaving open a gate to allow a couple men into the compound. One of these men, whom Ofdensen tracked down and tortured, led to a mysterious arms dealer from Germany. He did not know the German man's name, even when Ofdensen put the boots to him, heavy-style. So perhaps it was a dead end, but Leland felt it was a good start.

Alana herself checked out the private email accounts of all five Dethklok members. Most of their emails were spam or nude pictures sent by desperate, raving fan girls. Four days after first setting down at the computer Alana discovered a series of emails between Toki and a man named Austerlitz concerning a candy company. She printed the emails and gave them to Regina.

Regina followed Alana's notes and questioned Toki again. To such a pretty girl, Toki warmed up quickly. Soon he was freely telling her information that he would never have divulged to Alana or Leland. Leland was an ice-queen, all cold and distant. Alana's warmth was reserved for her people and for Pickles. Regina was a kinder soul than either of them. Toki obviously preferred her company to Leland's.

"So you don't know anything about this Austerlitz?"

"He ams my candys supplies-er! For the fundings!"

Regina sighed patiently. She was sitting cross-legged on Toki's bed, papers in her lap. She squinted at the notes in the corner, scribbled in Alana's strong cursive. "He demanded extra money from you?" she asked. "What happened?"

"I fireds him." Toki shrugged. "He tooks my moneys. Saids I didn'ts pays enoughs."

"Do you know what he did with it?"

"Nopes." He shrugged again. "Don'ts tells Ofsdensens, okay? Ors I'll haves ya killed."

Regina laughed. The papers slipped to the floor. She picked them up, giggling. "Okay, Toki, I won't say a thing." She looked up at him, grinning. There was no mirth in Toki's expression. Regina's chuckles stopped immediately.

He stared at her with eyes colder than a Norwegian winter. "Noes, I ams serious. You tells, you ams dies." He pulled a knife from his pocket. It gleamed wickedly in the gloom. "Yous will dies." He didn't look like a teddy bear anymore. In fact, he looked positively dangerous.

Regina gulped. "I'll keep that in mind, Mister Wartooth . . . Thanks."

-(!)-

"Track deleted."

"Fuck! Nathan!"

"Fucks yous!"

"Shut up!" The lead singer's voice shook the walls of the Dethklok recording studio. Breathing deeply, he composed himself before causing any serious damage. He settled for pounding the control panel. Something popped, and sparks flew. Nathan paid no attention. Some Klokateer would fix it.

Skwisgaar was shouting at the top of his lungs, his English degenerating as his rage intensified. His yells were soon overrun by Murderface's slurred bitching about that "totally fucking awesome bass track." Toki's high, clear voice joined the cacophony. _Interesting_, Nathan noticed, _every third word coming out of that little dildo's mouth is "fuck."_

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The three fell silent, breathing hard. Nathan stood up. "It's not fucking brutal enough," he said firmly.

"It can't be gettings any mores brutals!" Skwisgaar bellowed.

Nathan ignored him. "Your fucking bass sounds like shit." He pointed one thick finger at Murderface.

"You mix me out anyway!" said Murderface, sulking. The expression on his face was half fury, half misery. "Why don't I just fucking leave now?"

"Oh heres we go!" screeched Toki. "Dis agains! Ja, ja, Moidaface, you ams should leaves now! Yous fuckings dildos!"

Murderface grumbled, but he did not rise from his chair. That was the essential William. He would bitch until the walls of Mordhaus crumbled to dust, but he would never do anything about his troubles. William had a flair for the dramatic; in short, he was an attention whore. No one paid him any attention unless he made these bold speeches. But now, it seemed, their patience was running out.

Toki raged on and on, switching to Norwegian, his little-boy exuberance lost in an equally childish fit. His temper was hidden. He hated to argue, but once you pissed him off, you had to be prepared for a hate storm. Toki was an angry little dildo, and he took no prisoners in his verbal (and physical) battles.

The only one not making a scene was Pickles. He hadn't said a word during the recording session. While he played with his customary vigor, he did not seem intent on his work. He sipped his beer, took a hit on his pipe, and continued playing. He hadn't argued when Nathan chastised him for being off-beat, nor objected to a last-second changing of his part. He'd gone through the day without a single word of dissent. It was pretty weird. Nathan wondered if Pickles had discovered some good tranquilizers. Not out of interest in Pickles's safety, mind you. Caring isn't metal. And don't ever think it is.

The arguing continued. Nathan found himself lost in a storm of voices. Working for hours on end dulled the senses

"Shut up!"

"Murdersface you shuts up—"

"Fuck you yous fuckings dildos—"

"Maybe if you knew how to play—"

Nathan decided now was a good time for a break. He wanted some ice cream anyway. Ice cream solved all problems, and it kept him from picking up Skwisgaar and throwing him out the nearest window. So he growled at a Klokateer to bring them some. By the time she returned, the flaming rage of the members of Dethklok had receded to a simmering anger and some occasional growled obscenities. They were somewhat mollified by the appearance of food, but the Klokateer brought something else with her that they were not too fond of. It was Alana Ryland, flanked on one side by Leland Fleur, and on the other by Regina Maine. Nathan groaned. Alana carried another folder, which meant she was here to bore the shit out of them with stupid security bullshit no one cared about.

"Hi, Miss Gina!" Toki piped up.

Regina turned pink and returned Toki's smile with a nervous one of her own. "Hi Toki."

Oblivious to the dialogue, Alana wasted no time. She opened her folder and said, "Gentlemen—"

"Get outta here!" snarled Nathan. A glob of strawberry sherbet dropped off his spoon and onto his boot. "Can't you see we're having ice cream?"

Alana didn't even twitch. Her freakishly blank face was reminiscent of Ofdensen. "Gentlemen, Mister Ofdensen has asked—"

"Would you just _shut up_?" groaned Murderface. Nathan internally sneered upon seeing the ice cream that dribbled from the bassist's mustache. "No one fucking cares, you titless shitlicker—"

"Mister Murderface!" exclaimed Leland, starting forward. Alana stopped him. Leland glared at the bassist, disgust written in every line of his face. Nevertheless, he kept his voice calm as he said, "Sir, I must protest—"

"Shut up, gayboy."

Pickles snorted. He poured beer into his pistachio ice cream. "Heh. Gheyboy."

Leland turned his furious stare on the drummer instead. "Mister Pickles—"

"Reginas! Comes sits with me!"

"Oh, I don't know, Toki . . . ."

"SHUT UP!" Nathan bellowed. The noise ceased as though he'd pressed some godly mute button. Damn, he was getting good at quieting everybody down. "Okay so, we really, _really _don't care, okay? We don't care about the, uh . . . ."

"Scur-ties," offered Skwisgaar.

"Uh, yeah, security," agreed Nathan. "So uh, we're pretty fuckin busy so uh, could you like, go?"

"Alana didn't move. "Mister Ofdensen requested that I brief you and introduce you to your personal guards," she said. "You have each been assigned one Silverleaf employee and two Klokateers . . . ."

Skwisgaar scoffed. "They'll just be gettings in the ways."

Alana sighed. "They will follow at safe distances, Mister Skwigelf," she said patiently, "and they will not bother you, even if you are . . . involved."

"'Kay, now, get lost," grunted Murderface. He glowered at Regina, who was now sitting beside Toki and sharing a tub of Nutella-flavored ice cream. She looked up at him, spoon halfway to her mouth. Guiltily, she gave the spoon back to Toki and slunk back to join her partners.

"Hold on, Mister Murderface," said Alana. "First, we need to introduce you to your guards."

"If we lets you bores us," said Skwisgaar, "wills you goes away now?"

"Yes."

"And you won'ts goes otherswise?"

"Absolutely not," replied Leland firmly.

Alana handed each man a color-coordinated schedule with names and times. Looking at it, Nathan felt a surge of dread. This was going to take forever. Time for a little fun. He pretended to examine the schedule closely and blurted out, "Well shit."

Alana paused and looked at him. "Something wrong, Mister Explosion?"

"Well uh, it's just that . . . uh . . . this schedule, uh, you know how last time, when you gave us these things, some dude broke down the door and tried to shoot us?"

"Yes . . . .?"

"Well uh, what if that happens again!"

"Yeah!" added Murderface. He waved the schedule in the air. "What if these fucking things are cursed?"

Leland sighed. His patience was obviously wearing thin. "Mister Murderface, our paper is not cursed."

"Yeah but what if it is? Are you _trying _to kill us? Huh?"

"Ares you?" demanded Skwisgaar.

"Yeah, ares ya?" asked Toki.

"Of course not, Toki," said Regina anxiously.

"Yeah but last time, I got kicked in the balls," said Nathan. He dropped the schedule on the floor as though Alana had handed him a dead rat instead of an innocent piece of paper. "I don't wanna get kicked in the balls again!"

"Oh, come on," said Alana, now starting to get a little annoyed, "I kicked you because I needed you on the ground, before you got shot—"

"Hear that, Nathan?" asked Murderface smugly, "she wanted you on the _ground_! She wanted to fuck you!"

"I most certainly did not!" snapped Alana, her cheeks turning scarlet. "I did what was necessary!"

"Did shes grope yous while you was downs there, Nathan?" asked Skwisgaar, grinning hugely.

Nathan pondered. "Come to think of it, she _did _kinda touch me . . . ."

"What kind of pervert molests the people she's s'posed to protect," mumbled Murderface, heaving a dramatic sigh and licking his spoon clean. "What is this world _coming _to?"

Alana blinked, stung by the accusation. Leland put a hand on her shoulder, but she didn't look back at him. She could only stare dumbly at the members of Dethklok. "Mister Murderface, I didn't . . . ."

"Shut up, pervert!" snapped Murderface. He bent the end of his spoon, laden with beer-mixed ice cream, swiftly back; the foamy projectile sailed through the air and splattered against Alana's suit coat. She took a step backward and collided with Leland. Her eyes widened even further, but she seemed lost for words.

"Aww, nice one!" crowed Nathan. "Right in the tits!"

"Ja, rights in the tit!" said Skwisgaar.

"All right, dat's it!" Pickles jumped to his feet, his empty tub of ice cream falling off his lap and landing on the ground in a spray of creamy beer and suds. He raked the other members of Dethklok with his eyes. Hectic spots of color, not from the alcohol, burned high on his cheekbones. "You doods shut the fuck up, okay? It ain't funny!"

"Whoa, Pickle," said Skwisgaar, "gots a problem?"

"Yer damn right I got a prahblem!" yelled Pickles. Skwisgaar paused, surprised by the vehemence in Pickles's voice. "You guys're fuckin' sitting here, makin' fun o' 'Lana n' R'gina n' L'len, an' they're jest tryin' to help us, everybody jus' shut the fuck up an' let 'em do their fuckin' work!"

"She already did her work," said Nathan reasonably, "perverts . . . perve? Yeah. She already perved on me."

"She did naht!" bellowed Pickles. "Yer jus' sayin' that to give her a hard fuckin' time!"

"Lee!" interrupted Alana. "Stop!"

Pickles looked at her pitifully. "But they're makin' fun of you, an' saying yer a freak, and shit, and we both know yer a vir—"

"That's _enough_, Mister Pickles!" said Leland loudly. He clamped a hand over Alana's upper arm and steered her toward the door. "Your guards will be here shortly! Thank you gentlemen!"

And finally, the Silverleaf people left.

On their way down the hall, Charles Ofdensen caught up to Regina, Leland, and Alana. "So," he said, "did you explain the arrangements to the boys?"

Leland smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. It was, in fact, rather vicious. His blue eyes were almost cold enough to freeze the CFO in place. "Mister Ofdensen, I'm afraid not. In fact, I'm further afraid to admit that, instead of _us _introducing the guards, _you _will be performing this little task. Perhaps your '_boys_' will treat _you _with the necessary respect. Rest assured, _I _will not be doing _anything _involving direct contact with them again."

Ofdensen blinked. "Uh, what happened?"

"Lee was okay though," mused Alana. She wished, vaguely, that Leland would let go of her arm.

Leland rolled his eyes. "Of course 'Mister Ramsey' would stand up for you, Alana."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Ofdensen began.

Leland thrust the folder into his hands. "_You _don't need to."

He marched Alana down the hall, Regina trailing behind. She only stopped long enough to turn around and add, "hey, uh, Mister Ofdensen. Tell Toki that I _love _Nutella. And uh, tell him thanks."

Then she hurried off after the others.

Ofdensen looked down at the folder. _Nutella? What the hell was that about?_

In the recording studio, an awkward silence ruled. Pickles, breathing hard, sat down again, picked up his pipe, and lit it with a hand that trembled. Toki dug into his Nutella ice cream, glancing forlornly at the door Regina had exited. Nathan, pleased with his little victory, opened up a fourth beer and took a deep draught of it. Skwisgaar fingered his Gibson and stared off into space.

Finally, Murderface broke the silence. He rubbed his mustache with his arm, getting the worst of the suds off of it, and said, "So uh, Pickles. Did you say that the titless broad is a virgin?"

Nathan, Toki, and Skwisgaar all sat up a little straighter.

Pickles stared at Murderface in disgust. "Shut the fuck up, dood." He puffed on his pipe, thinking _I won't punch him, I won't fuckin' punch him, he __**never **__shuts up when you hit him . . . ._

"Well I'm just sayin'," said Murderface, leaning in close. His breath smelled of old burgers and beer. "Maybe uh, you know, we're big stars and all, ya know? Like, maybe she'll be . . . star struck . . . and one of us can make a move? Huh?" He moved in even closer. "You know, like, she'd be all excited to get a little . . . busy . . . ." His mouth was barely inches from Pickles's ear now. The stench of his breath was almost overwhelming. "Have a little fun? Ya know, her first time bein' with . . . say . . . the bassist of the most popular band in the world—"

Pickles snapped. He slugged Murderface in the face as hard as he could. The bassist flew back against the couch, blood dripping from his nose, shocked. Pickles leapt to his feet, his hands curled into rigid fists. "Naht cool! Naht fuckin' cool, dood! Fuck you!"

He stomped out of the room.

"The fuck is wrong with Pickles?" said Nathan disinterestedly, glancing over the schedule Alana had given him. He noticed that Regina Maine was his personal guard from six AM until noon every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. As if he didn't already deal with her creeping on him enough. "He's being a little goofball . . . ."

"He ams wantings to you-know-whats with the lady," said Skwisgaar wisely. He set down his second tub of ice cream, this one chocolate and rum. "Gods this stuff ams good . . . ."

"He ams probably on his mans-period," Toki added.

Murderface crossed his arms. "I didn't get my answer," he grumbled.

"Well, fuck it." Nathan stretched and dumped his beer bottle on the floor. He glanced around at the others, reluctant to start work again. "Anybody wanna finish up the song?"

The answers came back instantaneously. "Hells no!"

"Pfft! Noes!"

"No!"

". . . Anybody want more ice cream?"

They all said yes.

Nathan ordered two dozen more tubs of ice cream and more beer. Ice cream, after all, solved more problems than caring about things.

-(!)-

That evening, after dinner, Charles retired to his office to file paperwork. He had chosen to take his nightly meal among the cluster of white Silverleaf tents, where the security company had planned a little barbeque with the help of some of the Klokateer cooks. The different factions took their meals in shifts, ensuring constant activity. Ofdensen's dinnertime coincided with that of Company Five, a group full of cheerful individuals all eager to shake his hand. He found their companionship pleasant, especially a rather lovely girl named Alexandria Stephens. Now, sitting in his office with a glass of bourbon, he couldn't help but allow himself a rueful smile at the thought of her slim figure and ebony hair. She had a fantastic sense of humor, something the CFO could appreciate since he seemed to possess none of his own.

He was halfway through his second glass of bourbon when there was a knock at his door. The little flame of hope he had nursed over the last several hours that his evening would be undisturbed was instantly smothered. He heaved a deep sigh and called, "It's open!"

The door creaked open. Standing in the hallway were forty Silverleaf employees, Regina Maine and Alexandria Stephens among them. The latter woman beamed, her dove-gray eyes exuding a warmth that forced a smile from Ofdensen. She really _was _pretty.

Standing in front of this cluster of black-uniformed people was a woman with blonde hair and a white sash: the head of First Company, Devon Gamble. She nodded to him and folded her hands behind her back. "Mister Ofdensen, Leland told us we had to report here. We're the guards assigned to guard Dethklok all day?"

Ofdensen blinked. "Didn't Mister Fleur, Miss Maine, and Miss Ryland . . . .?"

Regina coughed and elbowed Devon out of the way. The blonde huffed, folded her arms, and stuck out her lower lip in a little-girl pout. "See, uh, Mister Ofdensen," Regina said, "Lelly was seriously serious when he said he wasn't gonna do the introduction stuff. He was . . . really upset by the guys making fun of Alana . . . ."

"He's in _loooove _with her," added a young, dark-haired boy in the back. A few people chuckled.

"Shut up, Mitch," grumbled Gamble.

"So uh, he told us to come here," Regina finished. She paused for a second, then added, "I love your tie, by the way."

Ofdensen raised one eyebrow. "Um, thank you?"

Regina blushed furiously and stepped back into the crowd, smoothing down her hair. Ofdensen looked over the crowd. "Seriously?" he asked, a little plaintively.

"Seriously serious," agreed Regina.

Alexandria giggled. Ofdensen smiled inwardly at the sound. He snuck a glance at the woman, who blushed and dropped him a wink. God, was she gorgeous.

"Well," he said, "I guess I can take some time to introduce you to the band . . . ."

The guards breathed a collective sigh of relief. After all, no one wants to deal with an angry Leland Fleur. They followed Ofdensen down the hall. Alexandria walked beside him, smiling smugly and tossing her hair the whole way. God, she was gorgeous.

-(!)-

Alana decreed that every Sunday evening was Silverleaf's time off. For safety, all the nightly patrols continued as usual, but the background checks and Klokateer-beatings ceased for precisely ten hours. Everyone, Silverleaf employees and Gears alike, deserved a rest from each other.

It was on that warm evening after the barbeque that Alana went in search of her old roommate. He had been mysteriously distant the last couple days, mostly gravitating from his closed bedroom to the recording studio, where they proceeded with their new album. He drank more often, according to Ofdensen, and smiled less. Lee was not ordinarily the most cheerful of people, but his moody silence worried Ofdensen despite its lack of influence on his musical performance. The CFO sent Alana to deal with it, believing privately that if anyone could make Pickles respond, it was Alana.

After wandering for a time in the lower basement levels, Alana found Pickles on a balcony overlooking the expanse of fields beyond Mordhaus. He sat on the rail with a six pack of beers beside him, a bottle of Vodka, and a pipe. The comforting, peppery smell of marijuana washed over Alana, making her cough. Pickles turned around. Alana smiled at him, wiping her streaming eyes. "Hello, Lee," she said.

He grinned halfheartedly and offered her a beer. She accepted. They stood in comfortable silence for a minute, watching the brilliant sun set, staining the sky with hues of orange and crimson. Soon the deep purple of twilight would fall, but for now there was fire in the sky. Alana smiled, enchanted by the loveliness of it all. It was hard to remain professional and aloof when faced by such majesty. She offered Pickles a lazy grin. But Pickles was edgy. He twitched his fingers, tapped his foot, rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes flicked from the sky, to her, to the dark expanse of low-sloping hills spread out before them. Even a puff on his pipe did not soothe him. Alana blinked slowly. "What's up, Lee-Lee?" she asked him, using the pet name he loathed in hopes of receiving a response. Even a snarled "fuck you" would be progress.

Instead of getting angry, Pickles fetched a big, dramatic sigh. His whole body seemed to wilt, as though that breath was the only thing keeping him upright. "Nathin'."

"Liar."

He bristled at the amusement in her voice. "Bitch."

"Love you too Lee."

_I won't say what's on my mind, _he thought. This promise lasted all of four seconds. He couldn't help it. He had been plagued by ghostly, nagging thoughts. The uneasy feelings in the pit of his stomach never died down, even with plenty of alcohol and pot to tame them. He took a drag off his pipe, coughed, and let his head drop. "Alana," he blurted into the quiet, "how much time ya got?"

He expected a scowl, a punch in the arm. Instead Alana sipped her beer, looked at him mildly, and said, "At this moment? Five months and eighteen days."

"Ya know what I mean," he growled. He threw his empty bottle off the balcony. The spray of glass reflected in the sun. He watched the glittering fragments land in the fragrant grass. "Ya know. Ya liar."

"I have no clue what you-" She broke off into a fit of coughing. He watched her pull a handkerchief from her sleeve pocket and press it to her mouth. When the coughing eased, she took the cloth away, and he saw with a sinking heart the spots of blood marring its clean white surface.

"Still?" he asked, voice uncharacteristically gentle. She favored him with a wry smile and nodded. "How lang?"

"Dunno," she said, waving an airy hand. "Three years ago they said a year, two years ago they said six months. All I know is, I'm taking care of you for now, and that's really all that matters."

"Ya know, don't ya?"

Now it was her turn to sigh. "A year, maybe a little more. Long enough to finish this protection detail. Of which, by the way, you have five months and eighteen days remaining."

He laughed at the reminder, but his laugh was bitter. His heart felt heavy. Really only five months and eighteen days left? What would happen when she was gone? _You've both been fine without each other for years,_ a voice reminded him. But he pushed away that thought and took a gulp of beer. It silenced the voice and the regret. Booze allowed him to remain detached. Thank God for it.

Alana smiled the first genuine smile he'd seen on her face since she came to Mordhaus. "I have determined that Leland will be my second if things go wrong, and he'll take care of the business when I can't."

Pickles's mouth twitched. "L'land."

Alana's eyes sparkled. "You never have liked him," she teased.

"Dood hit me! I didn't wanna duel him, I'm naht some crazy Russian . . . Frenchman dude . . . ."

"You were hitting on his sister, Lee!" Still that teasing tone that simultaneously drove him crazy and made him grin. Pickles threw up his hands in mock exasperation. Beer slopped from the mouth of the bottle onto his pants. Pickles cursed; Alana giggled in a very undignified way.

"She's a damn fahn woman!" he cried indignantly, wiping foam from his pants.

"Leland had every right to try and kick your ass," Alana retorted.

Pickles grinned grudgingly. Alana's mirth was infectious. She had a damn good way with humor, even if it was at his expense. He couldn't stay grumpy at her. It was nice to have the old, laid-back, wisecracking Alana standing out here with him. And speaking of old times, there was a certain Chihuahua-harassing feline he felt he should mention.

"So, uh, have ya figgered out who's ganna take care of Nigel?"

Alana cackled and rubbed her hands together. "That bloody cat. I suppose you remember the Chihuahua?"

"Oh Gawd. Dat guy was pissed." Pickles's smile faded when he saw the look on Alana's face. "What?"

Alana smiled back, but her smile was tinged with sadness. She leaned on the railing, scuffed boots dragging on the deck. "I gave Nigel to my sister-in-law after my last appointment, about two years ago. He was hit by a car last September."

"Oh Jesus, I'm sarry."

"He lived a good long life, and he's in a better place," said Alana, as though Nigel hadn't been her closest friend for over a decade. "I miss him."

"Sarry."

She shrugged. "It's life, isn't it? Life, and then death. Everything's eventual."

"But yer life is . . . Yer life can be fahn! Ya c'n have dat . . . dat surgery!"

Alana shook her head. "Highly expensive, highly experimental, highly dangerous. Only about 30% of people live through it. Well, as of ten years ago. Nowadays, there's about a 43% chance I'd come out alive. Less than half."

"Lana, isn't dat chance worth takin?"

"No, Lee. I don't want to waste the money. I'd be in debt up to my eyeballs for the rest of my life."

"Lana! Least ya'd _have _a fuckin life!"

"I've lived."

Pickles seized a pair of dreadlocks and tugged. The pain kept him grounded, and kept his temper in check. He gritted his teeth and hissed out, "Yer a fuckin idiot."

Alana took no offense. "Lee, it's my life. And it's okay. At least this way I know I won't end up a vegetable, or crippled. I can manage the pain and the disabilities until the company is prepared."

"Yer a dumb fuckin mother douche-bag!" Furious, he grabbed his pipe and inhaled. The burning sensation hit his lungs almost immediately, wonderful and familiar. He washed down the heat in his throat with cold beer. "You're fuckin' dumb! Ya think I din't notice dat da odder day? How ya gotta watch yerself an' how long ya laugh? Ya ain't even been fightin' with da Klakateers!"

"Fighting just isn't my thing."

"Liar! Ya always kicked m'ass when I came home!" protested Pickles. He felt his face reddening. He couldn't help it. It was just his temper, and it would always have the best of him.

Alana laughed. "Oh, Lee." She hugged him briefly. He didn't raise his arms to hug her back. Instead he took a hit off the pipe and offered it to her. She shook her head. "Thanks for the beer, Lee." She handed him the bottle, only half-empty. "Now I believe Collins is supposed to be here at six, with #33452 and #20485 . . . ."

"Fuck off," grumbled Pickles. "Fuck off. I don't want yer fuckin guards."

"Well, in five months and eighteen days, you'll be free of us forever," she responded tartly, then turned heel and vanished back inside.

Pickles winced. _Did she take that personally? Fuck. Wait, what do I care?_

He decided to retire to his room early that night.

-(!)-

At midnight, Alana called all her security heads, her partner, and her second-in-command to her bedroom for a meeting. She sat on the floor surrounded by her reports with Regina and Leland on either side of her. The four company heads; Vega, Norris, Gamble, and Fifth Company head Kennedy White. They perched on the bed, on the desk, and in the corner by the window, comfortable with their proximity to one another. This lifestyle was something they had adapted to. They had met in smaller, less comfortable rooms than this. Once, their midnight meeting had taken place in a jail cell. _That _had been an interesting two days.

As soon as Leland closed the door and took his customary place beside Alana, Kennedy blurted out, "Is Ross coming tomorrow?"

Rosalinda Cassiano was the head of Third Company, also called the Enlisted Company for their high percentage of former military enlisted. Rosalinda was a second-generation Italian immigrant who had joined the Marines immediately after high school. Now, twenty-eight and in the best shape of her life, she commanded a group where four out of five guards were her brothers and sisters in arms. They were the best company, and everyone knew it. It was also no secret among the security heads (excluding Rosalinda herself) that Kennedy was very fond of her.

Regina took this time to tease Kennedy, an activity she relished. "Of _course_, darling," she said, batting her eyelashes and clasping her hands to her chest. "And she's so eager to see you! She just can't live without you!"

Kennedy turned pale, then crimson. He brushed a sheet of honey-colored hair out of his face and tied it up with a rubber band. "Shut the hell up."

Someone knocked on the door. "It's open!" Alana yelled. She didn't bother greeting the newcomer. To the others she explained, "I'm too lazy to get up."

Skwisgaar entered the room. As always, he was strumming his Gibson. He leered at the Silverleaf people. "Whats ams you all doings?" he asked.

"We're trying to have a meeting!" Kennedy barked, his face still a lovely shade of red.

"Fucks yous," said Skwisgaar with dignity, plopping down on the bed between Gamble and Norris. He grinned at Gamble. "Hellos."

She blushed. "Hi."

"That's your signal to lose some weight, Devon," said Vega loftily. He cracked his knuckles; a habit everyone detested. "Skwisgaar's a chubby-chaser."

Gamble punched him in the chest. "Shut up, Lucien!" She laughed in spite of herself. "You're such an asshole!"  
>Skwisgaar kept silent. There was something strange about these people. For one, they worked together and made fun of each other, but there had been no venom in Devon's comment, no strength in her punch. Vega accepted the blow with equanimity. If Murderface had said that to <em>him, <em>Skwisgaar probably would have brained him with his own bass. He hated being called fat. But this woman (who was curvy; not heavy but still pretty hot) didn't seem to mind it from her "friend." These normal jackoffs weren't beating each other up. Odd.

"Can I help you, Mister Skwigelf?" asked Alana.

"Ja." He shrugged. "I ams boreds."

"We are your protectors, not your entertainers, Mister Skwigelf," said Leland coolly. Alana thumped him on the shoulder. He glared at her. She ignored it.

"Wells, continues withs the talkings, den," said Skwisgaar.

"Well . . . ." Alana paused and regarded them uncomfortably. "I suppose, at tomorrow's _möte_ . . . All hands, you know . . . ."

"_Möte_? You speaks Swedish?" interrupted Skwisgaar. She glared at him. "Yous used _lyda _toos . . . You ams speaks Swedish."

"Terribly," confessed Alana. "We use a series of random words from different languages . . . And same made up words too. Titles, mostly. Silverleaf Jargon." Her cheeks reddened. "Grammatically incorrect as hell, too. Important words are foreign or imaginary."

"Why the fucks?"

Alana shrugged. "We hate discussing our business in front of outsiders. We learned our lesson with that once. Anyway, tomorrow we're having an all-hands meeting with Mister Ofdensen. No jargon allowed. Full disclosure."

"Then says it," snapped Skwisgaar. "No ones ams carings abouts yous busi-nesses. You thinks I ams cares?"

Alana sighed. "Sorry, Mister Skwigelf. Anyway, tomorrow's _möte_ -meeting- will include Company _Tre_ . . . Three . . . Ross will indeed be here. And . . . hell, I don't know much more. Leland, report."

Leland swelled up with pride when Alana mentioned him. He opened his folder and spread out a series of papers. "Mister Ofdensen, ah, _questioned_ a young man by the name of Jerry Finch, who admitted being hired by a German arms dealer whose name he never knew. He knew not the intentions of said man, either." An ashamed look swept across his face. "And other than that . . . I have little information."

"I found out about a guy named Austerlitz," piped up Regina. "Same German maybe? He invested in Toki's super-secret candy company-" she clapped her hands over her mouth to cut off the flow of words, but the damage was already done. Her eyes widened. "Oh shit."

Skwisgaar had definitely heard her. "Candys company?" he scoffed. He strummed an E chord. "Littles baby."

"Mister Skwigelf, I'll have to ask you to leave," said Alana, rising. "And I would ask you to not mention what you hear tonight to anyone. Especially Mister Ofdensen."

"Fines," said Skwisgaar. He left the room, waited for exactly thirty seconds, then ran down the hall to find Toki. The satisfaction he felt was almost overwhelming. He'd intruded upon their meeting just to ask why Alana used Swedish words, and left with some fantastic blackmail. A secret candy company? A deal made without Ofdensen? Oh man, Toki wouldn't _ever _live this down! Skwisgaar could use the knowledge to make Toki work for him. He could just picture Toki painstakingly cleaning his private bathroom after a little midnight party . . . Or hell, dragging unconscious hookers out of his room! Gear work for Toki! Fantastic! He laughed to himself and raced downstairs. Ah, the miracles of gossip.

In Alana's room, Lucien Vega stood up and stretched. He eyed the closed door as if imagining the fallout from Regina's slip-up. "Alana, he's going to tell everyone."

"I know," said Alana, "we just gotta get to Ofdensen first."

Regina was inconsolable. She laid her head on her knees and wrapped her arms around them. Alana could hear soft whimpering sounds that meant Regina was close to tears. She remained still and unresponsive when Gamble sat beside her and slid an arm around her shoulders. "I wasn't supposed to tell," she said, a tremble in her voice. "He's gonna be so mad!"

"What do you care?" asked Vega. He cracked his knuckles again. "You really shouldn't."

"Well I care!" Regina shot back. Vega flinched back as if stung. Regina wiped her face with the back of her hand and pushed Gamble's arm away. Surprised, the woman edged away from her. "He's gonna be mad! I was supposed to keep it a secret!"

A sneaking suspicious occurred to Alana. "Regina, are you and Toki . . . becoming friendly?" she said.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Well . . . I only ask because we can't become too attached . . . our job here—"

"Oh fuck the job!" snarled Regina. . Her expression, uncharacteristically furious, spoke to a deeper problem than a simple slip-up. "Fuck you. I'm allowed to be fucking upset that I broke Toki's trust. He trusted me and I had to run my stupid mouth!" Her voice rose through the last sentence, cracked on the last word. Now the glimmer in her eyes was more than tears; it bordered on hysteria. She leapt to her feet. "Besides, you're one to talk! I heard Pickles was your old roommate! Now he's like, obsessed with you and you're bitching to _me _about not making a scene or getting attached? Everybody in Dethklok already makes fun of you!" Her hands clenched. She looked ready to sock Alana in the jaw. "You're such a fucking hypocrite, Alana!"

"Regina—"

"No! Fuck you! Fuck your hypocritical bullshit." Regina stalked out of the room with her nose in the air. The other company heads looked at one another and silently followed suit. Only Leland stayed behind. The door closed. There was silence for a moment, a silence neither of them were willing to break.

"Well fuck," said Alana. She looked around at the scattered papers on the floor, dismayed to find tears in her eyes. For some reason, she could feel laughter bubbling in her throat.

Leland put a hand on her shoulder. "Alana, do not worry yourself. Regina will calm down."

Alana wiped her eyes. "I know. I just hate this." She could feel the warmth of his hand. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She didn't want to look at him. His bright blue eyes were too serious, too direct. He seemed to be staring at every feature on her face with particular interest, almost hunger. She didn't like that expression of longing.

Leland hesitated. "It will be fine."

Alana laughed and dropped her gaze. His stare was starting to frighten her. She could a rash of goose bumps breaking out on her arms. Her hand unconsciously dropped to her concealed gun. A familiar feeling of dread was creeping through her body. Her muscled tensed. "Keep thinking that, Leland. Now go away, I'm tired."

"Alana, I—"

"Go." Alana brushed off the hand, threw papers off her bed, and crawled into it. Leland was frozen in place. She looked at him. "Go away."

Leland obeyed.

-(!)-

An entry from the journal of Company Four employee Scott "Melvin" Kyota:

_Man, guarding Dethklok is NOT as fun as it seems.  
><em>_First of all, Leland Fleur (or as I like to call him, because he's got a whole fuckin' tree growing up his ass, "The Stick") has been BITCHING all day long. He follows Alana around like a damn puppy all day long, simpering and handing her stuff and trying too hard to suck up. It's clear he wants to bang her, you know. He's pretty obvious about it. The only one who doesn't notice is Il Commandante. She tries really hard to not care._

_The guys from Dethklok are awesome, no kidding. But they have weird quirks. Skwisgaar spends half his day screwing. And he takes his guitar into the hot tub. He must have some magical waterproofing power. Jesus Christ._

_Pickles is always drunk, and can you believe it? He used to be roomies with Il Commandante! How amazing is that? I mean, seriously, if she doesn't get a bonus check, I'll kiss Nathan Explosion's boots. Ew. Wait. Never mind. That's kinda gross. His boots are probably like, covered with blood and brains of his fans. He's a badass like that. This guy is seriously awesome!_

_No, really, I can't bitch much. The thing that really drives me crazy is the nightly patrol. The last three nights, I've been pacing the second floor of Mordhaus. Around and around and around the same hallways. I'm tired of it. First of all, the guys from Dethklok. As cool as they are, they're pigs. They leave empty beer bottles, boxes of pizza, and even instruments lying everywhere. I've tripped over one of Toki's guitars twice in the last three nights. It's dark in the hallways at three in the morning. They only leave certain lights on so the guys can find their way around, but it's hard for us since we have to pay close attention to **everything**. If we don't, The Stick will surely be on our asses. God that sounds dirty._

_Anyway, I just gotta say, I have nightly patrol again tonight, and I swear that if I trip over another overturned chair or keg, I'm going to scream myself hoarse at the cleaning crews. They are **not** doing their jobs. Alana should train them personally. She's the biggest hardass we have.  
><em>_So. Patrol starts in ten minutes. Guess I'd better get going; it's a long walk up from here. These basement rooms are bullshit. And they stink like death. So many dead Klokateers. I'm gonna spend my first paycheck on a cleaning service and some air fresheners._

_ -Kyota_

* * *

><p><strong>Hey so, review and stuff.<strong>


End file.
